Everyday Courage
by Alinyaalethia
Summary: Being the letters of Gilbert Blythe, John Meredith and Jonas Blake over the inter-war years as they negotiate the changing scene of life, it's joys, sorrows and elevated mundanities.
1. Chapter 1

_I'm back, with a project I never thought I'd embark on. But then it was suggested I try at the correspondence between Gil, Jo and John. At the time, I had no intention of doing this. But then I was ambushed by six-odd handwritten pages and found it aligned neatly with a wish to skip-change my way through the years of the children in Pieces of Lives and Love, Laughter, Tenderness_ _, so changed my mind. _

_Expect much reference to both texts, and I'll try and go light on theology where I can. I will certainly glance off of the medical; you know me and how I'm not a doctor._

 _The characters remain, as ever, L.M. Montgomery's, and any I have conjured are inspired by her. With love to all and any of you who have followed me to this unlikely place. I don't know what you'll make of it, but look forward to finding out._

 _Alinya_

* * *

Martyrs' Manse,  
Kingsport,  
June, 1923

John,

It was wonderful to have caught you and Rosemary so recently – and for such an occasion. Phil and I were attempting to parse the last time we all sat down together, and she makes it Christmas, 1920. I am no mathematician, so defer to her, but equally, I feel that cannot be right. Was it so long ago you argued for Coverdale over the Authorised version? (We are still on the Authorised. No one at Patterson street would recognize anything else, though I take your point as to translation.)

We have been keeping an eye, as asked, on all at Larkrise, but find there is almost no need; Phil and I never come by but the Carlisles are there with the children, or else Shirley and Mara. Oftener still we run across both at once. Phil says this just as well, as both parties are vastly superior in domestic sciences to herself. I have tried to point out that this is not what matters, but she reminds me that that is only true when you have not had to eat half-done shepherd's pie for a fortnight. She tells me her former Patty's Place conspirators will vouch for this. You might run it by Anne for veracity.

Nevertheless, it is no great inconvenience, as with Sam and Jake swallowed by Halifax and the others as yet without children, we are rather starved for the usual tumble of them and attendant antics. I find little Christopher and Dog Tuesday fill the gap admirably. (I suppose Faith told you how they overturned the shelf housing the hymnals at Martyrs' on Sunday last?)

More recently, Phil and Faith have been plotting christening details. I had previously supposed Mara and Judith Carlisle would take these over, but forgot the staunchness of your daughter's theology. It is Presbytery approved to every article, and so will be the sandwiches served at the Agape after the event. She doesn't wear it on her sleeve but is a perpetual reminder to me to remember _to pray in secret_ every now and again.

Phil liking an occasion to host, they are now discussing cucumber versus dill as an accoutrement to salmon in those same sandwiches. Rather, Phil is. Faith is nodding graciously. I suspect she's more invested in the baptism – though when I hint so to Phil, our children – such as continue at home with us – gently roll their eyes. In any event, my living room coffee table is currently burried in edible greenery and it has seasoned the room accordingly. I keep wandering in by mistake, smelling the tang of the dill and thinking we're hosting a Food Ministry evening I failed to make due notice of. I'd mind, except that it is so obviously making an entertaining diversion for your daughter and hers. (Helen, by the by, is in favour of dill. She has got hold of a stand and has been sucking on it this last quarter hour.)

As we're speaking of her, where did Faith and Jem take 'Helen' from? I've heard all sorts of guesses but thought you might know.

You'll be up for the service, of course – will you do the honours?

Love to you and yours. May you, as ever, be well, do good work, and keep in touch.*

Jo

* * *

New Manse,  
Glen St Mary,  
June, 1923

Jo,

Thank you, I will. And thank you again, for as I once observed to Rosemary, what kitchens are to her, churches are to you and I. I shall do my best to treat yours with all due reverence.

I had supposed Helen took her name from Jem's grandmother on the Blythe side. Is that not the case?

You surprise me not at all about Faith. You know my sentiments on pre-Synod treatment of children in its theology.** My own grew up with it as tabletime conversation. And the Glen wonders how they came by their opinions! If she seems set on carrying off this baptism at the earliest convenience, you know the reason.

I trust you have since been and tended to the Food Ministry proper? I keep thinking we ought to start something of that ilk here, and keep getting waylaid. The present culinary endeavour – a mushroom soup and lamb shoulder, to be followed by bread pudding – is being undertaken by Bruce for a Scouts' badge. They have to make three dishes, and I strongly suspect, from the smell, which is creamy on the part of the soup, and mint-savoured on that of the meat, that this badge will owe not a little to his mother. This is not Bruce's fault; it is Rosemary's. See my earlier remark about her kitchen. The last foray I undertook in that quarter, risked for a cup of tea, found Bruce imperfectly mashing potatoes, and with quite as much mash on the counter as in the basin, so I cannot say I altogether blame her.

Even so, I wouldn't have it otherwise. This week's lectionary might render God _in the still, small voice_ , but for my part, I have often had cause to find him in the whirlwind of my children, now scattered so disparately across the country. Bruce with his lumpy mash and enthusiasm for Scouts continues a vital part of the tether that ties me to everyday concerns.

None of that will do for Sunday's sermon, of course. I find the lectionary exceedingly vexing this week – from Elijah at the cave to Legion by way of – as our metric psalmody have it – _as pants the hart_. Somewhere, I feel sure, there is a thread to tie them together, in the way we crave our God and the places he finds us out in, but I have not quite got there with it yet and should like to before we are joined at table by Akela.

Love and blessings to you and yours – and should any ideas strike you that make sense of this week's whole, do send them hence.

J.M.

P.S. Rosemary has just come in and looking over my shoulder advised me it is altogether more likely that someone took a fancy to 'Helen' reading through Mary Douglas's gift of a name dictionary. As so often happens, I find my opinion shifting into accordance with her guidance. For while we are not at war, there is ever a need for light in the darkness, and she is light twice over, _Helen Clare_. But do tell me if you arrive at an answer that is less conjecture and more concrete. I should be interested to hear it.

* * *

Ingleside,  
Glen St Mary  
June, 1923

Jo,

You are quite right, re Helen. It was not, after all, my mother's name, though as John never had the luxury of meeting her there is no earthly reason he would know this, and the supposition a natural one.

Mother's name, as you will possibly remember, was Abagail. What you will possibly not know, is that she was 'Miss Abby' to devotees, even after her marriage, and that the devotees were legion. Chiefest of these was my Uncle Dave, who found her to be the little sister he had been cheated of.

As to the question you posed, it was my understanding that Kitty had the naming of Helen. This came about when she heard the others considering possible permutations of 'Catherine' for a girl and rebelled, it not being a name she has ever cared for. Jem being at a loss, and Faith being then much preoccupied with Christopher and the hospital, they gladly handed over the naming to Kitty and Teddy.

I believe, but could be wrong (unlikely though that is) that the choice was inspired by Teddy's reading of _Bullfinch's Mythology_ to the little Carlisles. Helen, of course, would feature prominently there. With any luck she fares rather better than her namesake; I wouldn't wish another war on our children or theirs for anything. Once was quite enough.

We continue well. Anne's Sweetbriar is in full blossom now and the back garden awash in the smell of apple. 'Round the front we are serenaded by the smell of June lilies, which are liable at this rate to take first prize at the church fete greenery stall when entered.

Susan remains indomitable, and my advice to her to work less and rest more goes unheard. Mara could manage her, I think, through sheer persistence if nothing else. But to say it is unlikely that we should get her and Shirley back in the Glen to settle, much less under our roof seems to do disservice to the word 'understatement.' And considering we were not long ago convinced of Scotland keeping them, I am loath to tempt fate by suggesting the idea. Though a letter to Shirley – or possibly a quiet word from you after the Agape some Sunday – about having a gentle word with Susan might not go amiss. She won't listen, but neither will my conscience prick me. (I know it's no good telling you to talk with Mara; only the thickest of skulls would nurse the delusion Sacred Heart had ever relinquished her of a Sunday morning.)

But I cannot complain; they are back, and Kingsport not so far as it once was. I do not altogether understand it, for I had his letters from Bara and they read as _home_ , but I can be glad of the chance now to get to know each other again. I find I had made but a poor start on this before the war where Shirley is concerned.

Anne sends love, and is enclosing a copy of _The Growth of Love_ for Ruthie by way of a wedding present with her next letter to Phil. I know nothing about it, Bridges coming to me only through Anne, but I gather the sonnets have grown on her over the years. You might also mention that an apple-leaf quilt is promised too, but this late in their existence she does not trust Ruthie's to the post. Tell her from us we are much anticipating the wedding. It's been an age since we saw Mount Holly.

Love ever,

Gilbert

P.S. Anne is of the opinion 'Helen' was the name of Kitty's mother. If she is right – she usually is – that may go further than _Bullfinch_ to explain the choice of name. That being so, can you hazard a guess at 'Clare'? Is it perhaps a grandmother's name on Kitty's side (or indeed, Teddy's)? It is certainly none of ours.

P.P.S. Bruce Meredith _did_ land the badge in question. He was terribly proud of it and ran up to Ingleside expressly with the news. Being somewhat short of milestones to make much of, Susan offered up a Silver and Gold cake by way of celebration. It was as golden and creamy as anyone could wish of a Susan Baker Cake, and little Bruce (who I _must_ stop calling that) quite sensible of the honour. The Ladies Aid will almost certainly miss it Wednesday next.

* * *

Martyrs' Manse,  
Kingsport,  
August 1923

Gil,

I don't know about you, but Phil and I are _still_ humming _I Bind Unto Myself Today_.. Phil blames her mother, of course. In fairness, it is my understanding that Hetta did, in fact, select the hymnody, as became apparent when Ruthie and Mark had no more idea than anyone else where to turn in the hymnal for _Christ Within You_ after verse 5 of the above. I found it later, should you be interested, as hymn 278, over 100 hymns later. One wonders why they didn't omit the incursion along with the asterisked verses. And you now know why I leave such fine service details to other people. No one loves a committee so well as a Presbyterian, and I am infinitely better at life's more prosaic acts of worship. (See further the mending of St Andrew's chancel roof. Hetta Gordon was scandalised, undoubtable, but the organist and choir very grateful, and that is enough for me.)

The manse, meanwhile, has rediscovered its calling as a nursery. Certainly it does a credible imitation of one, both in scents and bounty. Anne would have words to do justice to the heady combination that is roses, lilies, and nasturtiums; I do not. I did not even realise we were possessed of nasturtiums until Phil vented her displeasure at their continued tenure here on last night's potatoes. In any event, we are sufficiently awash in flowers that no one will need to so much as think about altar trimmings until Advent, at least, by which point it will be moot. This is as well; there is much work to be done in this last gasp of ordinary time towards wintering not only Martyrs here on Patterson street, but also Holy Trinity in Waterford. I venture the St Andrew's chancel roof has set me in good stead.

Ruthie is, of course, tremendously happy, which is the important thing. I worried she wouldn't be, you know, when John's Una left us. They had got close in the way only people that share a grief can do. And then Mark appeared in answer to prayer, and I haven't heard a word from either of them since they left on honeymoon, which is as it should be, if, as Phil says, decidedly unsatisfying.

I keep getting halfway to her room with a joke for her or a petition to help with the Friday Food Ministry at Martyrs', and then remembering she isn't there. Write and tell me you do the same thing, Gil. I don't mind the ribbing from Phil and Naomi on the subject, but I should like the reassurance that I'm not alone in my absentmindedness.

As ever, be well, do good work, and keep in touch.

Jo

* * *

New Manse,  
Glen St. Mary,  
July 1923

Jo

I've just come from a lovely evening Ingleside-way, where the mint is running amok among Susan's beloved Calceolarias. It makes for a pleasant perfume, very evocative of that old favourite, _over the hill where spices grow,_ though I doubt it holds a candle to your present circumstance _._ Anyway, when not listening to the botanical woes of Susan Baker, and musing on the hymnody best suited to them, I have been soundly caught up on the details of that much-discussed wedding. (About which, I am surprised in St Andrews, Bolingbroke, still being on the old _Church Hymnal_ edition. I should have thought if any parish had the updated one – running _I Bind Unto Myself_ and its interstitial verse together, it was that one.) I understand it is to go down in the annals of Blake history as an event unparalleled. If I haven't already sent them, my heartfelt congratulations. I gather Ruthie made a lovely bride (Anne's exact word was 'radiant'). You must be beyond pleased.

It is not just you who misses them on their going. I say this as Gilbert let slip something along those lines after Anne and Rosemary had wandered away to the shore. Highland Sandy's line, as Gilbert will likely have said to you, was always 'Your house will be seeming very big the day.' Ours certainly does, with only little Bruce left to rattle about in it. Rattle is perhaps the wrong word, as even when he was younger he wasn't much good at making a joyful noise unto anything, and now he's embarked on a mission to read his way through my study (his own volition; he has already won the Scouts' badge in reading), I venture he's got _worse_ at it, not better. Norman Douglas has taken to lecturing him on his failure to get himself into misadventures.

But what I set out to say, before I got diverted onto the reading habits of little Bruce, was that you are not alone. There's nothing like an absence for tearing a rent in the fabric of life. I find our house echoes and re-echoes with them daily. One gets used to it, of course, with exposure, as one does to the noise of a waterfall. Or perhaps it's the house that adapts, more than the person, do you think? I find I still go looking for Jerry to wrangle sermons with, even now, and Rosemary keeps on making up the girls' beds 'just in case' something suddenly brings them to our doorstep. What could possibly bring Una from your Yarmouth Mission School to our Manse overnight I don't know, but the smell of shortbread in the oven, starched, warm and sweet, invariably leads me to conclude she is home again.

I've found as I've gone along though, that they continue to find ways of surprising me with joy. There was Faith's marriage, even if we did get to hear about it by telegram afterwards. And later, little Christopher and Helen – not forgetting Teddy and Kitty, who are quite as much hers as the rest of the children.

Thinking of you, and wishing you every blessing, unexpected and otherwise.

Love and blessings,

J.M.

P.S. I got so far as drafting a circular on Food Ministry to bring before the secretariat the other day. That is, I managed half a draft. Then Bruce came in with a query about a chapter of _Bede's Ecclesiastical History_ and my afternoon evaporated.

* * *

Martyrs' Manse,

Kingsport,  
September 1923

There's no danger of anyone forgetting Kitty! Phil has a theory that she is single-handedly responsible for the continued existence of our newsletter, and I find I agree. Did I tell you she has undertaken to manage the publication of it, when not improving _The Chronicle_ 's front pages? For this she has my everlasting gratitude; it has freed up more of my time to do the visiting rounds, and has allowed me to commit to helping ground the boats for the winter – much needed with Simon Hazelhurst suffering from a bad back. (I remain uncertain, by the by, as to why we _have_ a newsletter; I'm tolerably sure over half the parish can parse only the illustrations, but the Secretariat insist.)

Finally, thank you for your letter of August. It was much-needed balm in Gilead. It's strange, but I find that ever since the war the idea of anything – even the best things – taking my children forever away from me sits ill with me. Phil is the same. She blames the terrible scare Sam gave us at Passchendaele. I'm not sure I have even that excuse, though I certainly won't ever forget the grim days after that telegram came – _severely wounded_.

The grace of God brought him back, of course, and as often as I recall it, I am reminded how very selfish is the sort of love that would keep them forever close; really I want – Phil and I both want – the world for them. Ellie, I think, does better by him, having now more charge and care of his heart than we do. She knows his demons and the names they answer to, where I am but learning them. On that score, I fear I stand before him – indeed before all my children – as merely human. But if you too are gnawed at by absences then I am in good company, and all is well.

Look for more later; it's prayer meeting this evening, and Holy Trinity is hosting. If I am to keep my appointment reshingling the Carter house _and_ reach Waterford punctually, I fear I must bolt. Wish me luck. And thank you again.

Be well, do good work, and keep in touch.

Jo

* * *

 _* If you, like me, grew up on_ The Writers' Almanac _of a weekday morning, you will recognise what was Garrison Keillor's sign-off. Consider me reclaiming it to the good through Jo. It seemed too like him not to borrow._

 _** One of the rather gruesome quirks of Calvinist theology was that we left our unbaptised babies out of Heaven. Cheery thought. As we never got Limbo, this wasn't corrected until the General Synod voted on it in the early 1900s._

 _I can, if you like, get into the nitty gritty of the hymnals and lectionary I'm working from, but I suspect this may clutter things unduly. Ask and you shall receive though._


	2. Chapter 2

_With thanks to all of you reading and/or reviewing this oddity. I continue to fault its existence to Elizasky. But as I'm enjoying the writing, I do this with much affection._

* * *

Whitehall Ave,  
Toronto,  
Sept. 1923

Jo,

As promised a note to inform you of the safe arrival of one William Maxwell Aitken Ford. No, I have no explanation about the name whatsoever. In any case it does not matter, as both grandmothers have already shortened it to 'Liam' and since no one can bother with the rest, he will probably be 'Liam' everlastingly.

It was _not,_ as you may have deduced from earlier correspondence, an easy delivery for anyone, not least because Liam of the improbable name thought it a clever notion to walk into the world feet first. There was a bad hour when we talked of hospitals and haemorrhage, and Anne looked quite white, never mind Rilla. There was a _very_ bad quarter-hour where I wondered how I would ever look her in the eye if anything should take her baby from her. Far worse was the way she looked at me and knew as much.

All that has since passed and you can tell Phil in good conscience that all here are well. Rilla is presently tucked up in bed and asleep under a generous mountain of blankets courtesy of Anne and Leslie, who both profess to having been starved for people to fuss over this last year. I have given them free reign to make up for it now, and when I get a moment, I will borrow one Kenneth Ford and make very plain that nothing of this kind is to happen again for at least the next two years; I do not feel before that that mother and child would survive it.

Presently, though, I am sitting vigil, the baby at my elbow, and meditating, as it seems I always do now on St Luke; _And behold, ye are witnesses of these things. And behold, I send the promise of my father upon you.*_

Strange to say I never used to do it. It was John's Una that first put it in my head, back in that sun-saturated bedroom at Larkrise the day little Christopher was born. We were scrubbing him clean of afterbirth – we could all but taste it in that weather – when she quoted it, to him or me I don't know. But I never could get it out of my head for the aptness of it. I tell you, after what seemed years of watching my children fight to reassemble their world, I looked down at that boy in my arms, still blue and soft and smelling of new life, and thought Una had the right of it; we really _had_ witnessed the forging of some new covenant that afternoon. How does it go – _but there shall not a hair on your head perish_?** You will know better than I.

It was the same when Helen was born and I held her, and it is the same now. I look at little Rilla's baby, and cannot help thinking how much progress we have made towards that ideal Walter envisaged – even if there are days, as this one, where I am reminded we are still fighting for it with blood and the sweat of our brow. You will tell me that is a legacy much older than the war; you are probably right.

 _Liam_ meanwhile, is a ruddy-cheeked, strong-lunged lad who came in at the respectable weight of 8lbs on the nose. No wonder Rilla looked green for months. Thus far he has mostly informed us of his displeasure at the indignity of his arrival, and also of his outrage at the trains on the nearby line. I don't blame him on the latter count; they rattle by the house almost on the half hour and at such a speed that the foundation trembles in consequence. I shudder to think what the effect is on infantine eardrums. It's bad enough on those attached to this doctor. There has been talk all this last year of Rilla and Ken moving from Whitehall; I begin to think they had better make good on it, though it will be hard on Jims. He and I have spent many a long hour watching those same freight trains go hurtling under the Summerhill bridge on their way to Union station this visit.

On the other hand, if they stay, I really don't see how anyone will sleep ever again. This roly poly baby may have missed the red hair, but I am confident he has got the Shirley stubbornness (Blythe too, if it comes to that) in spades. You need only look to his delivery for proof. _Nothing_ would turn him, Jo, and believe me, I jolly well _tried_. If he resolves never to sleep again in the face of a freight train, you can be sure he won't.

In the event you couldn't tell from the name, Ken is pleased as punch and parades his son up and down the nursery corridor in a fashion that vividly recalls you with young Sam – how many years ago? ( _Don't_ answer that. It will make me feel still more ancient than did the delivering of William Maxwell Aitken Ford of my youngest child.) In any case, it has left me with a very strong impression of what Ken's military drills must have looked like.

Returning briefly to the theme of names, one thing I _can_ explain is the notable omission of Walter's from that list on the birth certificate. Susan and Cornelia might well harangue Rilla over it, but can you imagine the weight of that inheritance? A dark-haired September baby? Never mind no one could bear to say his name aloud, we should all expect him to be a poet – and think what would happen if he were not. If instead he wanted to drive a tram or preach the gospel of peace or I don't know what. To think Jem found it bad enough squaring with _my_ shadow – and I only ever our village doctor! This is better. (Albeit the littlest bit absurd.)

We'll be with you soon for Helen's baptism and are looking forward to it. Until then,

All our love,

Gilbert

* * *

Martyrs' Manse  
Kingsport,  
October, 1923

John,

A brief note to thank you for taking the service this Sunday gone. You'll have had that from us in person, of course, but I find I need to put it down in writing, more for the form of the thing, you know, than out of any shortfall or distance between us. Such things should be consecrated to the records of time. Anyone looking back in after-years deserves more than the acknowledgement of _Helen Clare Blythe; Baptised 14 October, 1923,_ in the church registrar, notwithstanding your penmanship, don't you think?

It was a beautiful service; you and Jo acquitted yourselves expertly. Not, of course, forgetting Phil and her ability to do an occasion due justice, but that's another letter to another manse. We have all missed you in your going, but of course you must be back in time for Harvest Festival. Provided there is no sudden onslaught of rain, or leaves on the line, Anne and I mean to catch you up shortly. In the unlikely event that either of these befall us, Susan would have me pass on that there is an offering of a wreath secured in our larder for the occasion. Corns and pussywillows, I think. In any case, you know where to find the key.

I took Christopher for a few hours the other day to give the children respite. We crunched our way around the duck pond - _very_ marshy smelling in this weather – and threw crumbs to the lingering geese. They screamed, and he laughed (he has got Faith's laugh, have you noticed?), and I was struck how like little Jem he was, even down to his love of a good mess. He fell into the leaves, of course, and pitched halfway into the pond in his efforts to get up again. Luckily he was delighted and the duck pond too clogged with wizened rushes and lily-pads to do him much injury.

I swung him up onto my shoulders and carried him back to Larkrise, to find the Carlisles round, the case of the hour under discussion and that long-ago gift of a chess set appropriated into the exercise. I was struck, as I so often have been of late, how much easier it was to realise my grandchildren than my children, who have stretched tall before me in their living histories. Do you find that?

We bypassed the Investigateers (Helen inclusive), his grandmother and Susan also in favour of getting him dry, clean and presentable again. (There being still a strong smell of mud, marsh, and bulrushes about him.) He was not much concerned with this endeavour, though I was, having rather a higher value of his grandmother's opinion than he has at this stage. (I do not think his mother would much mind; do you remember the day she went stockingless to church?) When we resurfaced, I nodded to the Investigateers, who were by then augmented by Mara and Shirley, and still wrangling the chess set into submission (still Helen inclusive; she was gnawing a bishop), but found I had no opinion to contribute. Instead I negotiated with Christopher the correct way to set up tin soldiers. I was for a phalanx, he for eating them. This forces me to conclude that he too is an Investigateer when not marshalling his troops. I really don't know how they do it.

So much for a short letter. Forgive me John – I have written you a sermon without intending it. Look for us next at Harvest Sunday.

Until then, yours et&

Gilbert

* * *

Martyrs' Manse,  
Kingsport,  
Nov. 1923,

John,

Harvest Festival has been and gone, and, as ever, I am humbled by the generosity of the parish. We have an embarrassment of riches to send on to the Food Ministry, though where it has all come from is anyone's guess. In any case, your Una will be glad; the excess is to go to the school at Yarmouth, where she says they are having quite the challenging time keeping our outreach community in food. Shoes too, but I understand she has directed that particular petition your way. (The Presbytery at Yarmouth is no help. They are offended by the union of the Methodist, United and Presbyterian – never mind the Episcopate – churches in this endeavour and insist their focus is on Ministry. And here this lowly minister thought we were called to do both.)

This being the case Phil and Naomi are making up parcels presently. I have promised to join them, but certainly the ten minutes it will take to answer your latest missive will not vastly diminish the task.

Do you know how Susan is? Shirley, as you may well guess, is not often at the Agape, or not for long enough for me to catch him. Phil cannot decide if this is a studious aversion to gossip or an inclination to appear at the gate of Sacred Heart when it inevitably let out. Having waited my share of Sundays outside the university chapel (and having bolted my own place to do so), I tend to towards the latter explanation. Especially as there is no way Kitty does not keep them all in gossip.

I, meanwhile, appear to make all my week's appointments over coffee, or all the formal ones, anyway, so of course am in no very good position to go actively looking for any one person. I imagine it is the same with you. And, of course, neither Shirley nor the Drs Blythe are much in need of my ministrations. (Though I _did_ drop a bread and butter pudding of Phil's at Larkrise the other evening. She'd have gone herself but the Ladies' Aid claimed her and I was headed out that way anyway to sit with old Mrs. Connover.) In any event, I keep meaning to ask, especially as she seemed notably absent from the Toronto expedition. I did think of asking Gil when he was up, as I thought her tired then, but between children, grandchildren and the parish, there never seemed to be the time. Besides, I think he sometimes worries he can't pass on news of the medical kind. Patient privacy and all that. Do let me know, provided you feel able.

Thinking of you as the tide turns towards Advent. Approaching it may you always be well, do good work, and keep in touch.

Jo

* * *

New Manse,  
Glen St Mary,  
Nov. 1923

Jo,

I am just returned from the house of Olive Kirk, who fancies herself ill with pneumonia. What she has actually got is a bad head cold, for which I recommended a peppermint rub and a prescription for Redfern's pills. She was so resistant to both that I am newly in awe of the way Rilla held her own against her while the Junior Reds were in session. I do not like to think what unholy trinity she, Irene and Ethel Reese made.

As for us, rest assured we continue well. I did suggest Susan stay back from Toronto, it is true, but I don't think she _listened_ to me, so much as refused to set foot there. Nothing, not even little Liam in his pomp and splendour will lure her thence. Someone (personally, I hold Persis Ford responsible) let slip to her that Ken and Rilla live overlooking the railway, and ever since Susan has refused to set foot in the place. Anne believes she has convinced herself that such close proximity to modernity will, in the first instance, lead to their destruction by errant trains, and in the second turn them into heathens. As Anne generally sees more of Susan than I do at the present moment, I was disinclined to argue. And of course, all this transpired early in September, which is always a bad time for an argument at Ingleside now. As I recall the occasion, Anne had a headache and Susan's jam wouldn't set, and I've learned by now what battles to fight. That was not one of them. Trains will crush houses and such blatant modernity will quash the church if Susan so ordains it. If you have a spare moment, you might just write to Susan reassuring her on this last point. She's always liked you, and you have the advantage of both a parish and a citified existence, where John and I do not.

Neither, incidentally, will we be up for little Liam's baptism. I feel rather badly about this, as it is the first such occasion we will miss, but Toronto this time of year, in this weather – and with the weather predicted – is too far. Anne's ankle would almost certainly suffer for it, if nothing else. There was talk of having Christmas there this year to make it worthwhile, but, as you'll realise, no one could take a baptism in Advent, and I couldn't leave the Glen for that long, especially not at a holiday. Anyway, Jerry would never survive Toronto, from what Faith has told me. And as Susan still won't go near it for the noise and the smell and grit of the coal steam, and as she _certainly_ would never forgive us cheating her of a holiday, we will wreathe the holly and twine the bay here and trust that someone thinks to document the occasion. (Someone other than Jims; Persis gave him a camera to take the sting out of having a younger brother and he's gone quite wild for it; Rilla's letters are now full of his snaps. It is _almost_ diversion enough to compensate him for the move from Whitehall to Maple St.)

I am enclosing a food parcel for your mission. Do forgive the lack of variety; I was called out to the Taylor farm the other day to see to young Danny's broken leg and was rewarded in kind. As there is no _earthly_ way we will ever get through the bounty before it goes soft, green and develops shoots, I thought you had better have a portion. May it be of use to you in your ongoing outreach.

Love to you, Phil and the children,

Gil

* * *

New Manse,  
Glen St. Mary,  
Nov. 1923

Jo,

The purple is out at last. I was beginning to think we would never get out of Pentecost Sundays and their attendant green. It is Norman Douglas's favourite of the festivals, Pentecost, but I confess to you, and my fellow members of the body of Christ (the ones reading, anyway); I find that finding original ways of describing the Trinity that are neither green, nor leafy but are accessible grows wearing after about week 15.

As you almost certainly discovered while she was in attendance at Patterson Street, the penitential seasons are Una's favourite. I have often suspected this is because they come easily to her; but for you, she is the only other person I know who can live them out in perpetuity. This year though, I find I am thinking not of her, but of Jerry. A letter came from Nan the other day with news of them **.** We took it up to Ingleside and shared it over an applewood fire and one of Susan's rhubarb crumbles with custard.

They are in Ontario now, and settled in Crow Lake, which is not so remote as was the island they lived on off Lac a L'Eau Claire. Nan writes that they will not be home this holiday, but are spending it with Poppy and family, which means we shall miss seeing the little girls. They are two as of last week and waxing impish. Miri especially is become a competent runner, while Mandy, still quieter, is currently taken with the doctrine that if she can't see anyone when performing mischief then no one can see her, either. Nan makes this her fault principally, but I recall Jerry at that age was of a similar bent – Carl _certainly_ was – so it cannot be all on her side.

It was as we set out again through the valley, the air all crisp, cold and heavy with snow, that I got to thinking about how different their lives had turned out to the castles in the air I used to hear them wrangle over. It's true of all of the children, of course, but I find as I polish the first of the Advent sermons it's Jerry I'm thinking of, up at Crow Lake, reshaping his world with his hands. When I said to Rosemary over his war letters that he should have to do this, I never meant it literally. If you had told me in yesteryear that Faith would be a doctor, or Una serve the body of the church, I should not have been surprised. I think I would not even have blanched, in that golden-leafed chronicle, at the thought of little Carl keeping vigil over Una, for all Faith has long been his favourite. But Jerry's need to reach for, even to restore beauty, I could never have anticipated. I don't know what I meant for him Jo, for we talked of many things, he and I, but certainly Canadian wilderness and landscape painting never made the list. And yet, as I sit here and look at his watercolour of Mandy dismantling her mother's cake stand, fairy cakes and all, I wouldn't change it for anything. _God moves in mysterious ways, His wonders to perform_ , and all that.

While I think of it, consider this an acceptance to join with Carl and Una at yours this Christmas. Rosemary and I were trying to think how to catch them before their departure in the New Year for the Foreign Mission School and then your letter landed in my lap, an answer to prayer. Thank you for thinking of us. (That should read 'Una's departure,' I suppose. Carl is still very much relocating his study of insects to foreign fields in the name of ensuring she does not go alone, for which his father's perpetual gratitude. I know it's good work, and I know in my bones it is _her_ work, and the minister in me recognises that call. The father in me is selfish and would have _some_ family near her, so far away, if he could.)

And I may yet contrive to take Easter at Crow Lake, provided I can find someone to minister to my flock here. That will disgruntle the secretariat, my missing both crucial festivals, and rightly so. But I should like to be sure of seeing Jerry and his family in the near future, and their wellness, and I cannot think how else to do it. Neither, I venture, can the secretariat.

Lest the season swallow us both and make communication a rarity, a holy Advent to you. I will hold off on Christmas greetings as we will almost certainly exchange them in person.

J.M.

P.S. We did indeed receive a share of the Taylor potatoes. Gil handed over what must have been 4lbs and said to call it tithing in recompense for the last ten years, all while grinning like a Cheshire cat. I don't need to tell you we haven't had tithing in _years._ Bruce, acting on advice from Martha's ancient almanac (I cannot imagine where he found it), has built a potato mound in our garden for their preservation. Rosemary and I are trying very hard not to laugh at it. Miss Cornelia is trying equally hard, possibly harder, to have it deconstructed, as the resulting asymmetry offends her. Provided no one trips over it attempting to summon me to a death-bed or an injury, Bruce and the almanac may yet carry the day.

* * *

* _Luke 24:48_

** _Also Luke's gospel. Here 21:18_

 _Other things of note; I am using - as I think Maud must have done - Episcopal in the old, Scottish sense here. Think the CofE in Scotland but higher (but don't tell them I said so!). I know in some countries it has recently ceased to be synonymous with 'Anglican.'_

 _Finally, I offer Crow Lake up, with apologies, as belonging to Mary Lawson. Because why not seize upon fictional Canadian landscapes to add to this fictions one?_


	3. Chapter 3

_As ever, thank you for reading and/or reviewing._

Martyrs' Manse,  
Kingsport,  
January 1924

Gil,

Happy Christmas!

Forgive the lateness of the salutation; we've had the children home, families inclusive. Mundanities we have been embroiled include but are not limited to; the absorption of Elie's Knox Church into our parish, a carol concert in aide of our sister parish in Calcutta, the setting of the Manse Christmas tree on fire by Jake's lads, and the falling _into_ the fire of Sam's little Evie. _Don't_ ask. I'm still not sure how it happened. I think the surest explanation is that she is Phil in miniature – but I didn't say that and you never read it. (Evie was fine, as Phil developed remarkably fast reflexes back in the days when our boys were young. It was Sam and Ellie that needed ministering to. Well I remember _that_ feeling.)

As you'll know, we had John and Rosemary with Una and Carl to stay – though they made for much tamer company. After the setting on fire of the Christmas tree, I was almost disappointed though not seriously. Bruce Meredith had the inspiration to take the boys out skating, thereby avoiding a repeat Christmas Tree episode, and it was Rosemary and Una collectively ousting Phil from the kitchen that put her in a position to rescue Miss Evie in the first place. (This also meant we were treated to Una's shortbread; the house still smells of it, all buttery and short. It doesn't matter how often she gives Phil the recipe, no one here can replicate it.) Add to all of this that it's been a winter for burials, and here we are.

Phil is, when not doting on the tumble of grandchildren, eternally grateful that neither weddings nor baptisms can go forward in Advent. So, frankly, am I. There was a bad strain of influenza going round (I think you wrote that the Glen got it too?) and Ruthie is sure I have visited more with the ill than I have with family. I'm not altogether sure she is wrong. Needless to say, we missed Faith keenly.

More to follow. Do forgive my bolting. I've promised the children I'd referee a hockey game between them and the wee ones this afternoon, and if I don't go now there won't be time before I'm summoned to our Food Ministry. Do thank Anne for the books for the foreign mission school. Una will have written, I know, but I wanted to add my own acknowledgement, as they will be much appreciated. No doubt _A Child's Garden of Verses_ is a fine place to start when learning English.

As ever be well, do good work, and keep in touch.

Jo

* * *

New Manse  
Glen St Mary,  
April, 1924

Jo,

A letter arrived this morning, postmark Singapore. The postman gave me a very dubious look for my trouble on collection, as if he thought it intended for some other John Meredith, not a minister. Such was not the case. A thorough examination has yielded us Una's account of her arrival at the Anglo-Chinese School on Barker Road. I confess, I was half-afraid to read it. The envelope – an elegant thing itself – yielded paper so fine and thin I feared it would tear in the extraction. Bible paper, little Bruce calls it. I cannot think how anyone ever took ink to it – all those watermarked almond and cherry blossoms.

I am glad, however, to have risked the reading. Rosemary says the school sounds challenging, and it does. But Una also sounds more herself than she has since the war ended. I would not have wished her so far, but in letting her go, I find you have given her purpose where the university and I could not, for which my everlasting gratitude. The Glen does and will persist, I think, in talking. Mick Drew of the post office will be the least of it. But the Glen does not have her letters. In them you have given me my girl back.

With love and blessings,

J.M.

P.S. Nearly forgot; they have arrived quite safely. The crossing was long, but not untenable. I gather Carl befriended a water vole and Una found occasion to settle to some much overdue reading. Just as well, as the future she sketches sounds altogether a busy one.

* * *

Martyrs' Manse,  
Kingsport,  
April 1924

John,

Not me, but God, as you well know. It was Him that sent her to Kingsport and then to us when Phil and I could not get the secretariat to see sense. I don't know what she did to sway them – Phil still believes she got to them with tea steeped to a normal strength and impeccable shortbread. I fear that in this, she is, as is so often the case, right.

We were very glad to hear of their safe arrival. Winter crossings have always unnerved me, much to my parishioners' amusement. I fear I would make a poor excuse of a fisherman, especially in ice season, and they take every opportunity over the long, dark months to remind me. Having been called to other purposes, I had the prayer meeting close with _Eternal Father, Strong to Save_ at the last meeting expressly, and of course it goes without saying the children have been in our prayers all this time.

Speaking of fishing though, it is the first of the season's fish suppers this evening, and I have promised to help with set-up. It is to be held over in Elie by way of properly integrating Knox into our daily pattern, and I must find my way there.

Give my love to your family, and as ever, be well, do good work, and keep in touch.

Jo

P.S. I am considering a theme of Discipleship for Sunday given the lectionary. Will it do?

P.P.S. A joyful Eastertide! We are still running on lack of sleep and Phil is threatening to adopt the custom of Low Sunday. Someone let slip mention of it the last time we were round at Larkrise and I have to say, the idea is not altogether a bad one. Is it the same with you?

* * *

New Manse  
Glen St Mary  
April 1924

Jo,

You want no instruction on sermon giving, as this Christmas past stands testament. Though I will run it past the explosive opinions of Norman Douglas (he being the litmus test of a solid sermon foundation) to be sure.

Secretariats are, alas, often won with food. Ours became considerably warmer when meetings concluded with Rosemary's soups instead of Martha's ditto.

As for Low Sunday, I have had to put that one to Rosemary for clarity. I can't decide if our stalwart choir of 5 would be offended or relieved at having a Sunday off, but I can safely say the rest of Glen St Mary would be scandalised. It doesn't bear thinking about. (As Gil has oft observed, 'Who needs sleep, anyway?')

It would certainly shock them out of their latest fixation; namely our letters from Singapore. The latest was Carl confirming safe arrival in his turn. He starts with Raffles College as a lecturer in September and is so keen about it that the paper reads as an illuminated text – all shot through with light.

Now the current wave of fascination is drifting up the stairs to the tune of Victorian Rose, formerly of West House. How _Glen Notes_ can ever have been so short of writers as to have been swallowed by _The Lowbridge Herald_ astonishes me afresh. To do them justice, I really believe they feel it isn't gossiping if they talk to Rosemary instead of myself. It's in much the same way that she never seems to consider it gossip to relay the lot to me. Parse that at your leisure.

We have 1 Corinthians 1:18-31 next week. It is sufficiently dense I am tempted to swap it for _Susanah_. Remind me why Trent ejected our Lord's most accessible stories?

Love and blessings,

J.M.

* * *

Martyrs' Manse,  
Kingsport,  
April, 1924

John,

If you have _Susanah,_ _The Notes_ may yet find it can break free of the yoke of _The Lowbridge Herald._ ( The text _is_ dense. I am comforted to hear a sage say so, as I am seriously considering the Year B offering in place of it. Trent was obviously composed of Magi.)

As to the question of sleep, I hazard Faith holds a somewhat different opinion presently. She dropped bandages round our way the other day and mentioned in passing to Phil that she considers the whole point of expecting a child to prepare you for the fact that thereafter one never sleeps again. Phil thinks she is on to something. I wouldn't know.

I would say though, that Helen is getting quite the following at Patterson St. It began in the usual way, with the Carlisles and assorted Blythes (I count Teddy and Kitty here) and ourselves, but she is fast becoming a favourite at the Agape. Everyone wants to hold her, and she to talk to them. She's even beginning to walk unsteadily, wobbling between her faithful flock.

A favour to ask; Naomi is struggling to place a school near home. Would you make inquiries? Consider me humbled before you. How you ever bore sending your girls from you I cannot fathom.

Thinking of you, wishing you well, and as ever, be well, do good work, and keep in touch.

Jo

* * *

New Manse  
Glen St Mary  
May, 1924

Jo,

I am sitting in the manse study, surrounded by the Easter lilies Rosemary cut from the garden and arranged for me. They smell of greenery and new life, as I think every Easter season, and are competing gently with the irises under the window – also Rosemary's doing. She calls them Trinity Flowers. There is thyme and parsley running riot in the window-boxes, all fresh and clean smelling, and also hers. It all makes me feel the height of disloyal in what I am going to write to you.

But you were talking of Helen and the way she so effortlessly collects people around her – and my Cecilia was the same. Gil has said before now that Helen got Faith's laugh, and certainly she got Faith's golden looks, save her eyes, which are Jem's. But inasmuch as such things are possible, I tend to think she got Cecilia's soul.

People couldn't help loving her. I don't only mean me; I'm not sure I even and only mean 'love' in the worn-out romantic sense such as stories are full of. But she had only to look at a person and they wanted to know her, to cultivate her as a flower, to do good by her. It is a strange thing, for I have never seen the like of it quite in anyone else. She was soft-spoken as Una ever has been, and gentle as a new lamb, and yet she drew people to her, sometimes without so much as a murmur. And yet, I have looked at Helen – and you write to me of her – and thought now and then that she is made of the same shape and inclination as her grandmother. One of them.

I have long thought this, in some disquiet corner of my brain, ever since I held her that first time, and traced the smile she secreted at the corner of her mouth. She must have been hours old, a warm, milky-scented slip of a thing, and I looked at her, and knew her. She seemed to radiate gentleness in waves, so unusual in babies, who are liable to be fussy, those first few hours. Even Una was overwhelmed with the newness of the universe. And yet, I looked at her and thought of Galatians; _But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, longsuffering, gentleness, goodness, faith_ …And of God, and how after all, when he was not in the whirlwind, he was in the still small voice. Jo, never before had I held anything so still and small as that child; I felt I was holding and impossibly fragile eternity in my arms.

Then, inevitably, Helen opened her eyes, so curious and quietly eager to know the world, and to love it. And that is always how I think of Cecilia; eyes drinking in a room as if to draw it, or perhaps only know it better. I had thought only Carl inherited that of her, never supposing it could skip like eye-colour across her descendants. It made me heart-glad to see it in Helen, and then, as I say, disloyal for looking for it at all. For, have I not been given much, much more than my due in the years since her death?

I expect, if I went looking, I would see Rosemary in her too, but somehow, to even invite that comparison seems far, far worse. And now I am sitting here, breathing in the Easter smell of Rosemary's lilies and trying to explain this to you in a way that makes sense, when, in all probability, such an exercise is beyond me.

But on to more earthly concerns. Gladly will I investigate the school for you. I hear through the grapevine (read Anne Blythe, who sits on the board) that even the staunchest of her supporters grow tired of Miss Reese's tyranny (Anne's word, mine would be _tenure_ ) over the school. Your Naomi would be a welcome change.

J.M.

P.S. What do you make of next week's lectionary? It seems Leviticus is combined badly with Matthew and I make no progress.

* * *

Martyrs' Manse,  
Kingsport,  
May, 1924

John,

Change? A _good_ thing? In what church do you preach, for it can be neither a small village kirk nor of Presbyterian persuasion. Do you not know it takes half a dozen committees of six just to buy new Advent candles?

(So, you will notice, failed my food parcel endeavour of Christmas past. I would have had us forsake candles for it, but the Secretariat felt it a change too drastic. Perhaps it was.)

In all seriousness, thank you. It heartens me to think of Naomi among friends. But when did Anne take on the board? I must have missed that revelation.

As to the readings, I cannot help. You are, as ever, the academic between us. I won't know what I'm going to say on the theme until approximately half an hour before hand, as you well know. Between now and then I owe Dan Abbot an afternoon mending lobster traps and a visit to Grace Conway, who is ill. Your Faith has been incredibly good by her, incidentally, and Mrs Conway tells me she has never felt in surer hands. What we did before Faith took up at Patterson street, I and the congregation no longer remember.

I can, perhaps, do better by the rest of your letter. I should start by saying I find nothing to fault in it. How else do we carry our dead before us but to look for their echoes in our families? Is there anything more natural? Recognising it to be so does not diminish the family before you; rather it enriches it by keeping past happiness alive too, so that Helen's inheritance, from her grandmothers, as you observe, will be twofold. And such an inheritance. I, of course, have never known you in your Maywater days, but I find that if they are even a pale reflection of your Glen interval, then Helen Clare is rich in bounty as any child could be; goodness and gentleness and a love that stretches to kiss her environs as sunshine on dewed grass. What more can we hope for?

Gil wrote once, not long ago, of the weight and legacy of names, and I suspect he was right. I find even now, looking at Jake's Andrew, that I catch myself looking for hints of the uncle he will not know. But this is different. This is an inheritance you have entrusted to Helen as all her own, and that is better. At the risk of disgruntling Susan - who will say I am too much at Fox Corner - _ego te_ _absolvo._

I suppose the Glen is still being ritually scandalised by your post? Do pass on any news you might have, won't you? We're due the usual monthly letter, but as it is atypically late, I suspect the Anglo-Chinese School of having a Secretariat and swallowing Una's spare time with paperwork. I wouldn't like to encourage it's neglect, but neither would I have her devote all her time to the cause, however noble. You might just drop a hint. I don't think she would listen to me. (Nor should she; my children make a not dissimilar accusation of me, often enough, goodness knows.)

May you both be well, do good work and keep in touch.

Jo

* * *

Ingleside,  
Glen St. Mary,  
July, 1924

Jo,

Tell Naomi well done with regards to the school. It's about time it was turned over to a sane person. Ethel Reese has had charge of it altogether too long, as is becoming apparent in the way her pupils have caught snippiness like a virus and traverse the village in pinched-looking clutches. Assorted patients (chiefly Cornelia) continue confused about what it was Miss Reese ever wanted with teaching school in the first place. Susan has taken an idea she saw it as a way to matrimony, having, Ethel-like, supposed this was how _our_ children secured their happiness. If she's right, I think I may be dangerously close to feeling sorry for one of Rilla's everlasting nemeses. She seems to have fundamentally misunderstood a lesson no classroom could teach.

Also tell Naomi that there is ever, a place for her at Ingleside. Anne would say 'the sparest of spare rooms' but since we are presently three people rattling about in a house that has comfortably held ten before now, we can almost certainly go one better than that. Of course, the Manse has theology on its side, I know, and she and John can wrangle the best way of translating John 1:1 into the wee sma's, but Anne and I were both rather good, in yesteryear at English and will happily parse Donne and Marvell with her at leisure. None of our girls ever took to either much; we'd be glad of an excuse to brush up on them. (Anne especially. I know she feels that debating long-distance with Priss and Stella is not nearly the same as was wrangling with them while they crammed themselves onto the window seat of her blue room in Patty's Place. I expect Phil finds much the same.)

I was going to further enumerate our good points in a water-tight case, but the telephone has just blared, and notwithstanding the creeping fog (it's that awful, damp, chill stuff that comes with what Anne calls 'invisible rain'), it seems Mary Douglas is resolved on having that third child _now_. So I am off, though Susan's roast smells ever so perfectly crisped and browned.

All our love,

Gilbert

* * *

Glen St Mary,  
August, 1924

Jo,

More news from Singapore; there is a woman at the Mission Church keeping them single-handedly in grapefruit marmalade. I had no idea such a thing existed, much less, in my ignorance, that it could be found in Singapore. I am afraid to admit I have retained my boyhood outlook on the place as somewhere exotic and dragon-ridden. Una's letters make it sound almost a home-from-home, between the music lessons she gives, and the English lessons, the Ladies' sewing circle and bible study. (I think she would like out of this last if she could wrangle it, but feels they are too much her community to risk it. Faith is not the only of my girls to take a _pray in secret_ approach to her lectionary, apparently.)

Carl has found a botanical garden and his letters regale us with plants and insects the like of which no one can pronounce. We can certainly _picture_ them, however, as more often than not he digresses into sketches of his theme, complete with labels. I must try and pass some your way. It's reminiscent of Jerry's war letters, but much cheerier. Rosemary is for framing them, Gilbert for making copies, and Bruce busily collecting the stamps. I never saw the appeal before, but between them, Una and Carl have unwittingly gifted him some gems, and he is become quite the envy of his contemporaries for the collection he amasses.

I gather the Glen School has taken Naomi on. This from Rosemary who had it from Anne over a Ladies' Aid session the other evening. Tell her she is ever welcome here, as at Ingleside. We are having quite the (amicable) competition going to secure her, as the houses are now grown spare and vast with the numbers so diminished. The decision is, of course, all her own, but you might just hint that her tabletime opinions on _John_ will be missed if she decides on Ingleside.

J.M.

* * *

Martyrs' Manse,  
Kingsport,  
August, 1924

John,

No danger there. In the first place, between your letters and Gil's (never mind Anne's to Phil) the impression is that two or three are always together where Blythes and Merediths are concerned. (A brief lacuna to inquire of Faith, who is taking tea in our sitting room, confirms the impression.) In the second place, the day Naomi stops on the subject of theology is the day I look for the coming of the kingdom. The great danger is that she will teach nothing else and be so ecumenical on her subject as to leave the parents in doubt to her orthodoxy. (All my fault – but how to set a stricture on who to help, much less quash her gift?) Of course she will teach them a good deal of Donne and Herbert too for variety, which will placate Anne, but I do fear for the Glen's aspiring cartographers. Geography will not make the curriculum, and that, as Miss Susan Baker would say, you may tie to.

This month's letter finally found us – profusely apologetic and full of the details of a clutch of recent baptisms they had drafted Una in to organizing. No wonder we were late hearing from her! I gather the service ran over by quite some margin, and I quote; _Your hour-piece would have worn out three times over by the time we emerged. Mercifully, I and the refreshments committee – you will gather we have a terrifyingly efficient one here too – had seen to it that there was no need for loaves and fishes._

All I can think in my humility, John, is _three hours!_ Three! Have you ever known a service like it? And I used to think it a bad day in my youthful tenure at Holy Trinity, Waverly Cross, when Pentecost and the confirmations all fell in a single swoop! Refreshments committee indeed. Phil is now longing for culinary details, and I don't dare guess beyond shortbread. (I dare to presume that if grapefruit marmalade is a favourite there, so will be Una's shortbread.) I don't suppose Rosemary could extract the details that the rest of us might know respite? Phil will surely divert her inquisition Ingleside-ward if I am unforthcoming.

Thank you again for your care and trouble over Naomi. As ever, be well, do good work, and keep in touch.

Jo

* * *

New Manse,  
Glen St Mary  
August, 1924

Jo,

Be assured the cartographers were well-served in bygone years by Jem, who charted courses of explorers and revolutionaries enough for one Glen Epoch. I venture that if Carl could teach Darwin at Over Harbour and live to tell the tale (just), your Naomi can safely explain the Mandatum.

Thank you also for the account of Agape after a treble baptism. I now find myself sharing your curiosity as to what liturgy was in use to lengthen the service so extravagantly. Or perhaps the sermon was responsible – what do we think? Ought one of us to send the infamous hour-glass along with our next parcel? I have never liked it for setting a stricture on meditation, but on the other hand – three hours. You must never tell Miss Cornelia. She would be mortified to hear we had found a way of outlasting the Roman Mass.

Love and blessings,

John

* * *

 _The hour-glass really is a factor in old Presbyterian kirks. You find them built into pulpits to stop the minister preaching his sermon into next year. You still get them (St Andrews Chapel, St Andrews, used one) but they count a considerably shorter time, as it's now a point of Presbyterian pride - or it was back when I was one - to never hold a service in excess of an hour on the nose!_

 _Also of note; I am making no effort with Nova Scotia geography. Kingsport being fictional, so are the surrounding parishes. In the continued tradition of nicking perfectly good fictional landscapes from other books, Waterford comes from_ Fall On Your Knees _. Elie is, lest anyone accuse a Canadian of originality in her naming of places, a village in Fife._

 _As for Low Sunday, this is an on Anglican tradition that I have never witnessed outside Britain - I presume because it is so rich in choral tradition. But the idea is that the Sunday after Easter (and Holy Week, and Palm Sunday and...oh, I could go on here), you give the choir a Sunday off and hold a said Eucharist. Theologically I think this has to do with the Sunday after Easter being necessarily more mundane (hence the name 'Low Sunday') but don't quote me. Choral tradition I get, theology less so._


	4. Chapter 4

Ingleside,  
Glen St. Mary,  
September, 1924

Jo,

Naomi is arrived safely at Ingleside. We have set her up in what was the twins' room in olden days, that having the second-best desk in the house. (The first sits still in Anne's dressing room, where it continues in good use. I myself, have long since made do with an inferior specimen of Dad's.)

Needless to say, we are all so pleased at having her that we have made quite the thing of her arrival, Susan having been baking since Thursday last. As I'm sure she will tell you in due course, the spread of food quite dwarfed us. The house is still full of the smells of it; the zest of Susan's Orange Shape, the crumbly pasty of her cream puffs, the sage and onion she mixed into the shepherd's pie. There was also a silver-and-gold cake Jims will be sorry to have missed but that we, the Merediths and your daughter attempted to do justice to. _They_ by the way, came armed themselves, Rosemary with an early pumpkin pie, all cinnamon-smelling and nicely golden, John with a stack of much-abused books he professes to have no further need for, but that are now cluttering our coffee table amicably as your daughter dips into them. I peeked gingerly into one – something on the nuances of Hagiography. Does that mean anything to you besides the obvious?

It's just as well that Susan wouldn't recognize a hagiography if it bit her on the nose; it's one thing, her little brown boy _marrying_ a Catholic, it's quite another for her minister to be ecumenical enough to have ever been possessed of books on how to interpret saints lives. We should never hear the end of it. (Not, I venture, that anyone would actually be _surprised_ by the revelation. I forget John's dissertation subject, but think it was comparative of assorted theologies.) Naomi, meanwhile, is delighted. I foresee lesson plans orbiting the history of St Cuthbert in the near future. Walter, were he with us, would, of course, champion her in this endeavour. All those white animals and chivalric attitudes! As it is, I suspect Anne of descending on the book in question just as soon as it can be spared. It's as well John is in no hurry to have it back.

I am thinking about Walter particularly, partly for the month, partly because Dr Parker is up in Mowbray Narrows assisting Alice through her second delivery while I cover Lowbridge for him. Turn about is always fair, of course, and six miles is now as nothing with the auto.

You're wondering what any of that has to do with Walter. It hasn't, much. Except that Alice and Walter were ever chums, never more so than that first year at Redmond. I shall never forget how adrift he felt in his first-year lectures until she cornered him in the corridor the second week in. His letters took a very different tune from then on, I can tell you. And now Dick is away tending to his daughter and I find myself by considering the version of events where he and I embarked on that great adventure together. It's not such an impossible daydream – or it wasn't. Walter long cherished a love of golden rainbows and Alice of the quiet chivalric. But for the typhoid taking him out of term and her taking up with Nick Eagleton, it might have come to something. I recollect now why I have so often discouraged matchmaking in Anne. It is a painful business when it goes awry.

All that belongs to another world; before the war, and typhoid and Courcelette. We are here now; my children scattered to their disparate callings and your daughter is tucked up by the fire pouring over hagiography and unwittingly distressing Susan by allowing her tea to grow cold and the floral notes of it to fill up the house as if we were a tea emporium. (Don't write and lecture her, Jo; all good Inglesideans do this at least twice per day.)

I trust this finds you and Phil well, if your house rather more big the day. Consider us suitably grateful of the bounty you have bestowed on us. And forgive this raincloud letter; it is a grey day and apparently catching.

Love ever,

Gil

* * *

Martyr's Manse,  
Kingsport,  
September, 1924

Gil,

We were talking of you only the other day; Phil went to confer with the calendar about when we host the Waterford secretariat elections and hit up against the hard fact of the date, and I fear Waterford and the secretariat elections of Holy Trinity fell rather by the wayside in consequence. There is little enough anyone can do in such moments as those, but allowing for the tints and permutations of memory is a fair beginning. God never does let our children grow strangers to us. Acknowledge your might-have -beens then, and live in them a little, for September is your season to weep and mourn. But do not cleave to them to the exclusion of brighter memories; Walter lived in beauty, and he would want you to cherish that still, I think, not least because September is also a season of joyfulness. I have not forgotten I married you and Anne on a September morning, nor that it too has an anniversary creeping up on us, and I cannot imagine that you have. _Weeping may endure for a night_ , you know, but _joy cometh in the morning_.* It always does, whatever our best efforts to stave it off.

Thank you for the particulars of Naomi's arrival. She sent us a very thorough letter but was rather more taken up with St Winnifred who was not beheaded than otherwise. She did acknowledge that you had met her at the station and that the signal failure at Northallerton had delayed her an hour and a quarter, but otherwise offered no specifics. Phil, as you'll appreciate, loves a detail, so this was no help whatever.

Thinking of you, as I say, and with apologies for dashing off so soon; the Waterford secretariat elections are imminent.

With thanks again, and may you ever continue to be well, do good work and keep in touch.

Jo

* * *

New Manse,  
Glen St. Mary,  
Nov. 1924

Jo,

A development. I was clearing out the study the other day when I came across that half-finished circular to launch our branch of Food Ministry, do you remember? Finding I was making no headway with the Year A lectionary for Advent (who dictates such things?!) I have since complete it and now filed it to be brought before the secretariat next meeting. This won't be until after Christmas, I am afraid, but it is a start.

Until then, your daughter has organised an appeal for the ACS, and has charmed even Elder Clow into contributing to it.** The idea is that it shall run through until Advent I, at which point we will parcel it all up and send it over to Una for distribution. So far we have met with modest success – and an unlikely champion in the form of Mary Douglas. She told me after service Sunday last that she remembered plainly the mortification of doing without and in unlikely alliance, she and Anne have set the Ladies' Aid quilting for the cause. (Bethlehem Star, Rosemary tells me, should Phil be curious as to the pattern.) Anne says it is good to be sewing again and for something cheerier than War Work, needful as that was.

( I have observed with interest – I wonder if you have likewise – that no one but the fishermen have had a taste for knitting socks ever since the peace was brokered. We now scandalise Sophia Crawford by buying ours in from Miller Douglas's store, and the Blythes do likewise, so far as I can gather.)

Gil is boxing surplus medical paraphernalia, none of which I understand, but trust the ACS Mission Doctor will, and for the rest offerings of tinned goods and shoes drift in in snatches.

In related news, Carl's letters indicate he has found and befriended a local botanist, quite knowledgeable, he says, on the specimens he is scrutinizing, and good for testing ideas against. Naturally, after years of correspondence to Patterson Street I had nothing to say on the subject except an appreciation for such persons. Una, in her turn, has sent a detailed letter on the theme of the school. Rosemary took the risk of reading this with Cousin Sophia present, which is the reason all the Glen now knows the local children are reciprocally teaching her Chinese in the moments between Dictation and Composition class.

This owes, apparently, to an especially trying afternoon in which they flatly refused to come to grips Dictation. Una does not especially blame them (though Cousin Sophia Crawford does); they are in a wet season, and Drill has been called off for the last two weeks, which makes all the children tetchy with what Una terms 'houseyness.' Suffice it to say they are too much indoors and this combines badly with the kind of dull, dry texts the ACS consider appropriate for dictation.

Una said there was the ruler on the desk, awaiting use, but she's never been able to use it for anything beyond arithmetic, and that only just, ever since I couldn't whip Carl all those years ago. So there she was with the impossible Dictation text in hand and the children all like _a sheep that before its shearer is mute_. (Her reference, by the by, I only replicate it here. I make this the other reason she couldn't lose her temper with them – much too easy to see Christ in anxious children.)

Languages have, of course, ever been Faith's gift, both to learn and explain, and finding she made no headway, Una curtailed the lesson early, conditional to them giving _her_ Dictation. What she should have _liked_ to do, I gather, was send them all outdoors for a good, long run down Barker street, looping Evelyn street a and back, but as the heavens were openly weeping, this was out of the question. So an early recess it was, and over milk and biscuits made them give _her_ Dictation. This was infinitely more successful, if the height of unorthodox, the ACS having, as you know, an English-only policy. But it is also not without merit, Una being often enough in the markets to find such lexical improvement useful, for all the languages that go the rounds in the city centre. Anne was vastly approving, and Bruce envious. He is accordingly writing a letter of his own petitioning her to pass on any titbits that stick.

Alas, Cousin Sophia, and not Anne Blythe, is a more accurate measure of the Glen popular opinion on this subject. Cousin Sophia sees such overtures as akin to converting, as does her surrounding circle. What she and they mean, one presumes, is becoming apostate, but I haven't the heart to explain that nuance from the pulpit. Besides, it is no use my sermonizing on the unlikeliness of this very unlikely thing coming to pass. The girl that loved _All My Hope on God is Founded_ from her crib is not so easily swayed in her calling. But then, what is it Christ tells us; _No prophet is accepted in his own country_? I suppose this is much the same.

Any chance we can tempt you over our way this Christmas? We would be glad to have you, if so.

Love and blessings,

J.M.

* * *

* _Psalm 30:5_

 _** The ACS was - and still appears to be - the affectionate shorthand given to the Anglo-Chinese School. I could go into lavish particulars about it, but you'd be here for hours. Look for more on it in later letters, and if you're interested, have a read of Growing Up in British Malaya and Singapore; Life among Fireflies and Guavas. _


	5. Chapter 5

Ingleside,

Glen St. Mary,  
Feb. 1925

Jo,

Good to have caught you over the holiday – and a pleasant surprise, since between Helen and Christopher, I had supposed it would be a year or ten before Larkrise hosted another Kingsport holiday. In this I am probably not wrong, but had rather stupidly (unlike me, I know) failed to bank on Fox Corner – presumably because of the cumulative demands of Sacred Heart and _Pygmalion_ on one half of the hosting party. Given that Shirley learned occasions from Susan, and Mara shares her taste for doing them properly, it's an especially egregious oversight on my part.

Nothing, of course, would dissuade Susan from going – not that I tried very hard, you understand. After a year spent on the Island, she seems much better. Besides, my inclination that she wasn't going to be allowed to do much beyond cluck in dismayed fashion at such innovations as Advent Candles and fish suppers was admirably born out. As it was, her armchair interference made for excellent diversion, and we were all hard pressed not to laugh. I was under _especial_ orders not to, for some reason, as was Jem, to which end we fell to parsing his latest case. You will be unsurprised I was caught rather without words. As you'll recall from my Cooper Prize days, I have ever been better with the quick than the dead. Still, it was obvious Faith and I wouldn't be allowed to spend all evening attempting to diagnose your Mrs Conway, and Geordie Carlisle and family dropped in to collect opinions from all and sundry (also to Teddy en route to St Margaret's). So while Faith and Mara played Miss Woodhouse on behalf of my daughter's Harriet (not that Di appears to need it), I turned to Jem and made a stab at an opinion on the strange case of Martin Ross, as was, for wholly a quarter hour before moving on to the antics of the children.

A world ago, you know, the before-the-war world, Jem and I could talk quite easily. This was before they snatched some vital piece of himself from himself and left him in need of justice for all his dead. I could not have done it, Jo. If I miss the comradery, I also catch myself, at odd moments – such as the interval before dawn on Christmas Day, when it seems only you and the sun are awake –wondering how little Jem ever did it.

Shirley understands better, I think, and much as I miss having my children on my doorstep, I shall be forever grateful that he and Jem, at least, are within a stone's throw of one another as the crow flies. (Anne would lecture me here for mixing my metaphors, but Anne is not writing this letter, and you, I am sure, will forgive me this debt.) Strange now, to recall how little they were together as boys. Thinking on it, I cannot recall that they _ever_ overlapped. Jem must have been off to Queens by the time Shirley was out of Susan's hammock and integrated into the Rainbow Valley set. Yet, there were moments this holiday where they would look at one another over the crackling of the fire, or the savour of a nut roast, and seem closest of all my children, even the little girls.

Which reminds me – still no Nan and Jerry this Christmas, though not for want of trying. Crow Lake is said to be something like six feet under snow; it was quite impossible for a train to get within five miles of the place. But John has arranged to take the Easter service there and report back faithfully. In the meantime, Nan remains the best of our letter writers, and Jerry paints a lovely card.

By all accounts they are flourishing. Mandy, at three, has tamed their resident red squirrels. She sits upright on the lawn in fine weather – so not the current stuff – and chatters to the trees until they come down and chatter with her. Miri is more interested in learning to _climb_ the trees, and I will leave you to imagine what a mangle that is making of parental nerves! They are, in consequence, beginning to make fast friends of a Dr. Christopherson.

I let slip this particular detail by mistake and was thereafter _bombarded_ with inquiries from Faith as to how he was, what he was doing, et&. The world being small, he was the doctor who had care of her in Europe. I begin to understand how _our_ Christopher got his name.

My failure to gratify such an inquisition was forgiven confronted with the antics of young Liam. He spent the visit pulling himself about the house, assisted by assorted footstools and end-tables, Mara being excessively tolerant on this front. Thousands would not have been, as Leslie Ford kept saying, as she ran behind her little prince. Susan has decided to invest this with portentous meaning; I suspect it has more to do with Mara being more mother than sister to assorted younger siblings. Tuesday, not to be outdone, elevated himself to the lofty heights of the dining room table, by way of Kitty's lap, which place he then wandered about assisting those he deemed insufficiently appreciative of Teddy's offering of peppermint bark in the consumption of it. His long nose is greatly useful, it transpires in rootling among dishware, and he did so at his leisure, much to Susan's horror, and our bemusement. This lasted only until Pilgrim – you may remember the girls' shared cat from Swallowgate years – routed him from the table, at which point Shirley dosed the dog heavily with charcoal. He was not at all appreciative. (Pilgrim was himself ousted mere seconds later by Mara, who did not, apparently, adequately appreciate the favour he was rendering her.) Christopher nearly succeeded in overturning a soup tureen, and was prevented only by the intervention of Teddy Lovall. (You will have gathered that Teddy's annual Christmas visit to family did not align with the holiday. I understand he has told them that his furlough fell later than was in fact the case. We were, naturally, very glad to have him, not least because of Christopher's Soup Escapade.)

Thereafter he took Christopher and the Helen to feed the resident fox scraps of goose, to Susan's horror. Shirley's explanation that this stopped the fox chasing the cat did _not_ hold water, as Susan reasonably pointed out that Mara only tolerated the cat in the first place. (This is not untrue on observation; in practice I suspect she's rather more invested in its continued existence than she admits to. They both are.)

Interloping animals aside, and notwithstanding the children's best efforts, it was as grand an occasion as even Susan could wish. The geese were done to a turn, with two kinds of sauce to dress them in, and more bitter greens stuffed in them than I had previously thought possible. There was even eel – spitched, not jellied – for Jims, much to Rilla's mortification, and to do Mara justice, the smell of it was even enticing, which is more than can be said of the jellied things Jims favours. Di had tried her hand at Nan's plum puffs, and done a commendable job. She uses rather more cloves than her sister, and I have to confess to preferring it. The house was full of the smell of baking, of cedar, spruce, bay and ivy – as Anne said, it felt quite as if we'd stepped into the woods, or at least a faerie ring. (No holly, I notice, and no surprise there. Ancient Rome irrespective, the women have _definitely_ won the government of Fox Corner, Larkrise too.)*

Owen and I competed covertly for the part of Santa Clause, and I won, Fox Corner being an extension of Ingleside. I thought perhaps Jims would have caught on this year, after all last year's questions about my bad luck never meeting St Nicholas, but apparently not. That or he is really Rilla's child and happy enough to sustain the delusion. Helen's eyes went quite wide at the sight of a bearded stranger all in red flannel, and she proceeded to hide in Teddy's lap. Christopher only wondered why Santa didn't give Mrs Ford and Susan a kiss each as well as Grandmother. He thought it _most_ ungenerous – and I had a terrible time not laughing!

But I fear the show was quite stolen by Helen's receipt of a dollhouse. It is a great, colonial affair with columns and a veranda that wraps around it, quite taller than she is. Helen being barely of an age to sit up, and disinclined to do more than gnaw lovingly on her toys, the gifting of it rather baffled me. Enlightenment purported to come from Teddy and Kitty, who suspect it is more a gift to Geordie Carlisle than Helen. This had me thoroughly confused until Teddy explained about how on occasion the little Carlisles' dollhouse has sometimes stood in for a chess set with the Investigateers. I think that was supposed to make sense of the whole for me, but it did not, or not much.

We continue to anticipate the year that finds us all in one place again, naturally. But for the time being, this is a respectable gathering, and I am satisfied. I trust your holiday following the service was much the same. Do pass on our love to any lingering children, and Phil. To Naomi though, the message is rather different; _haste ye back_.

Love ever,

Gil

P.S. Can I, in good conscience, do you think, take a raw herring to the head of one Kenneth Ford? When I demanded a two-years gap between little Liam and any future siblings I did _not_ mean virtually to the day! Now I find winter shall take me to Toronto, probably to do battle for my daughter's life again. I have no stomach for it, Jo – and yet, I would not have her weather it with strangers.

* * *

Martyrs' Manse,  
Kingsport,  
March, 1925

John,

Who is Fred Arnold? The letters we get from Naomi are suddenly rather full of him. Phil, with her usual mathematical inclination, has put two and two together to get what is probably seven with a derivative of six and a half, and has all kinds of suppositions on the subject.

In related news, we hear from Una that Carl has acquired a new friend at the botanical gardens and are both excessively curious. Is this the botanist you wrote of or a more recent acquaintance? Do forgive us if we join forces here with the Glen gossips; it lovingly done. We have, I think, absorbed your children into our pattern as you and Gil have mine. The more frequent the digressions in Una's letters from mission work, the more we learn of her and Carl, and it is a luxury we are sensible of.

I am a little awed at how readily and easily they have settled in Singapore. In the beginning – before Phil and Patterson St – I often thought of doing something similar. I talked often enough with Priss's missionary over the prospect in olden days. But I could never quite tear myself from home. I should like to spout something noble-hearted about there being work enough on my home soil, but that would be only half-true. I found work here because I had not quite nerve enough to risk the uprooting. It is good work, and I am glad of it, but every now and again, one of those wafer-thin letters like water arrives on our mat and I wonder anew at the inward courage of your girl. Carl too, for it is no small thing to reshape one's life in a place that is not home.

And yet those same letters begin to be full of their neighbours on Evelyn St and the fellow ACS teachers, the people at the little Presbyterian Church in the centre, and here and there hints of Carl's work at Raffles.

We continue in our efforts, naturally, to direct the Lent Appeal towards support for the ACS, and people give as they can. This is less than it might be this year, as I also find there are a quantity of Elie houses in need of renovation after a recent flood. The original architect did not, I gather, take the waterline into consideration in his planning of the village. I have put my name down to help, but really think the brunt of it must wait until Sam is down for Easter and can help. It's a nuisance, but I cannot spend so many long hours levelling floors as I have previously – or not without ill-effect. My knees would feel the work keenly, and I am no good to this parish laid up in bed.

Shall I take it the secretariat were unreceptive to the Food Ministry effort? I know from Naomi that this year's Lenten bible study has met with success, so that is something to the good, anyway. Though how you continually find new things to share with your flock in this vein I do not know. Were it me, they would end up with my Sunday sermon delivered early. But perhaps you are not ruled by the lectionary? You must write and tell me; there are a handful at Martyrs' who might be interested in such an effort, could I find a place to slot it in.

Be well, do good work, and keep in touch.

Jo

P.S. I did write him on the theme, but do I take it that Gilbert's taste for herring has subsided?

* * *

New Manse,  
Glen St Mary,  
March, 1925

Jo,

Fred Arnold is the son of the Methodist minister and a good sort. His father, Nathan, has the Methodist church here and does rather a lot in advancing our local outreach. Regarding your daughter, Rosemary doesn't think there is anything in it. (N.B. She said this while Cornelia Eliot was sat the other side of our chesterfield cradling a piece of Victorian Rose full of china tea care of Una and Carl. I suspect, therefore, she said this _for_ Cornelia, and possibly for the preservation of the Victorian Rose, it being an heirloom. So, by the by, does Cornelia, who is not an easily deceived woman. There is also a look Rosemary wears when she's trying to say a thing that is not _and_ be the placating minister's wife. Cornelia knows _that_ too.)

The friend of the botanical gardens has since moved in with them. It is a monkey that answers to the name of Puck. Una doesn't care for it at all, as it spends much of its time chasing her away from Carl, and also around the kitchen, which place it finds deeply fascinating. Just about the only thing she is allowed to do to it, as I understand it, is pour its tea. It takes china tea, preferably, with a generous helping of milk, three sugar, and a peanut on the saucer. It drinks this while perched atop Carl's knee and daring Una to get within half a foot of it. Carl, meanwhile, is teaching it to write, and has suggested in her spare time (I'm not altogether sure when this would be) Una teach it the piano. She has declined, and refused to let Carl make any attempt that way himself, fearing for the ivory of the keys should Puck have free rein of them. Carl has, therefore, contented himself with teaching him chess and Presbyterianism. (Don't ask; Una is not terribly clear on the particulars.)

This is, as you will gather, quite a different friend to the one I wrote to you about previously. _She_ is called Li, and continues to crop up in Carl's letters, though not Una's, as I do not believe they have met.

Needless to say, this time we were sensible to our company and kept the letter back for the Inglesideans only. We were over the other day for one of Susan's roasts, and even that formidable woman was hard-pressed not to fall to laughing over the antics of Puck. Gilbert was in tears, and Anne quite helpless. Bruce and Naomi think it delightful and are conspiring to pester our foreign correspondents for pictures with the next letter. I have to confess, I am quite curious on that score myself, having never seen a monkey outside of a _Natural History_ textbook, and that as a boy.

As to Gil, I think you needn't worry. Whatever you wrote to him, and whatever Anne said on the theme has temporarily quashed any made desire to go to Toronto, herring in hand and land comeuppance on Kenneth Ford. Though I think we should all understand if he _did_. Faith sent me a very exasperated letter on much the same subject after seeing Rilla at Christmas. I wouldn't know; the best we can do, I suppose, is pray it goes well. And possibly intervene whenever Herring Episodes look likely.

Love and blessings,

J.M.

* * *

Martyrs' Manse,  
Kingsport,  
April, 1925

John,

Phil is the same where nice untruths are concerned. She's long sought to learn Susan's stauncheness but the closest person I've seen to that is Shirley's Mara – also your Faith with her patients. Though Faith, I think, does not so much lie to them as gentle them. Gil does something similar, and I think she must have learnt it by observing him. (I am reminded of the way they approached your Jerry's Miri when she was so ill, those years back.)

That is Gil nicely settled then. Do keep me informed; if he gets past you with a Herring, I can probably catch him here. Though Jem might prove harder to pin down, and is equally concerned. Now, what are the feelings of Fred about being collected? He sounds suitable enough (for us – Bolingbroke would be horrified to Phil's delight). Methodism must be the one thing missing from our ecumenical connection here, and I could like him if Naomi does.

Jake and family were down visiting when your last letter came, and they joined us in sharing a good laugh over the antics of Puck. Phil and Retta (you will recall this is Jake's wife) both credit Una with more patience than they themselves have. I would not like to say, but certainly the lads, and indeed Christopher and the young Carlisles – for of course by now the story has gone all hands round – are clamouring for monkeys of their own. Faith says Tuesday the Dachshund is quite enough, and Judith Carlisle says only that there are days when she is tolerably sure she is entertaining monkeys unaware as it is, thanks all the same.

Another question; in the interest of making Revelations accessible, _what_ do I tell them of the New Heaven? Surely this parish – surely all of my parishes, know more in their way of suffering than I have ever learned.

Be well, do good work, and keep in touch.

Jo

* * *

New Manse,  
Glen St. Mary,  
April, 1925

Jo,

Why do we go to Jerusalem? And how do we get there? We go that we might, as the old prayer says, _know Him more clearly, love Him more dearly, and follow him more nearly_. That is, we go to Jerusalem that we might know Christ; his glory, his agony, and his atonement for us. In so doing we are forced to reckon with the knowledge of His humanity; that He too knew dark hours and torments, and yet turned not away from that cup in its bitterness. And in so reckoning, are we able to understand that we are not alone, and never can be; that, however, grievous the injustice and the burden, He too has known it and born it. We go to Jerusalem in abjection, in awe and seeking grace. He sends us away comforted, enfolded, and levened. We go to Jerusalem six ways from Sunday and for a multiplicity of reasons. It leaves humbled by a still greater humility. Thank you, you appear to have launched the next of my Lenten sermons. My apologies for preaching it at _you_. As to what you will say; you will tell them what they must do to get there, of course. Too often we forget Christ the Servant, but you never do. It is your great lesson to me always. And when better to refresh it than this season of humility?

On which note, and in light of something your daughter let slip, I am thinking we might try the Mandatum this year. The Glen school (read Naomi) has indeed been teaching the origins of the custom as part of Church History, so it would be apt. What is your experience? I know you have often held one in past years. (N.B. I ask not a little so I can cite it when Miss Cornelia accuses me of defecting.)

Faith writes that the move to Fox Corner went about as smoothly as a move can do with one Dachshund leaping and two small children. She and Mara are glad, so far as I can work out, at being under the same roof, though even so, I expect they'll be glad when the expansion of Larkrise is finished sufficiently to move back in again. Not least because Teddy rather takes Di's old place in vying with Mara for the kitchen. He meets with less success mostly because she need only redirect him Christopher-and-Helen-ward to reclaim her territory. Faith says it is vastly entertaining to watch, especially as Teddy almost never notices he's being managed. They are nearer to the Carlisles than ever, and I only wonder how we will ever prise them away for the summer holiday. Until then, she is grateful to Fox Corner for putting them up and you for helping with the move – I suppose she has told you so this last Sunday, but I wanted to add my thanks too. It is not every minister that would take that trouble, and I'm grateful for the watch you keep over my children. Never think it goes unnoticed.

Find enclosed a full outline of this year's Lenten Study Group. My apologies for getting it to you so late; assisted by your daughter and Rosemary we organised a separate one for the women – who otherwise, apparently, do not feel they can participate – and the season quite got away from me. You will notice we do not adhere to the lectionary, for much the reasons you give, but pick a book and parse it at leisure. It's too late for this season, I suppose, but perhaps you could try a condensed version in Advent?

Love and blessings,

John

* * *

Martyrs' Manse,  
Kingsport,  
April, 1925

John,

I am not a bit surprised about the Mandatum making curriculum. I am _very_ curious what young Mr. Arnold makes of its inclusion.

In all seriousness, _do_ try the Mandatum. Fair warning; never have I been more humbled than at the first one I took. I finished with old Ebenezer Malcolm's feet (this was in the days when he was still with us) and I will never forget the moment he knelt and turned to _me._ I was halfway to objecting, only then I recalled Peter, and realised I _couldn't_ oppose him and do the thing properly. _A new commandment_ , and all that. So I stood there and allowed my feet to be duly shocked with cold water. It was icy, they went quite red – we were down by the harbour for ease of access, and to avoid pew rent, you know – and it stung, but I knew God then. If you do manage to get it past the secretariat, be sure to tell me know how you find it.

Sam brought the children and Ellie down for a visit the other week. For assorted reasons we are missing them this Easter, and they wanted to make up the difference. No falling into the fire from Evie this visit – we are having rather better weather, I gather, than your Jerry and his family in Ontario – though she and little Emma kept us busy enough.

Sam got stuck in, as in olden days, to parish work. He has that modernity of an auto, you understand, a luxury that I could possibly run to, but have never felt able to in light of the congregants' circumstances here. Anyway, this made it excessively easy for him to run between Martyrs here and Elie's Knox with food parcels, and to ferry me into Waterford to take the ten o'clock service. It also meant we finally got the reparation of the flooded Elie houses underway, with which Sam was a tremendous help. They are nearly all redone, leaving very little for me to finish. It did mean I saw very little of the grandchildren, but as Phil got them to herself, Ellie time to _herself_ , and Sam and I a chance to catch up, no one is much complaining.

Sam was quiet, of course; he has ever been quiet since coming home to us, and I have spent long years musing on how to learn his heart again, when it used to seem I had it expressly in my care. Of course, Ellie has it now, and does exceeding well where Phil and I feel we cannot tread. But I thought of you and your New Jerusalem, and somehow that was an inexpressible help. For the first time since Passchendaele, I have not needed to understand, only to sit with his hurt, and that made such a difference. It should not have been a lesson I needed to learn; it is the thing I have always tried to do with the grieving. And yet it is different, somehow, with one's children. You said not long ago of Helen that it seemed you held eternity in all its fragility between your fingertips, and were not wrong. Thank you, John. I cannot say how much.

Jo

P.S. The move was as nothing. Someone needed to do it, and I wasn't convinced Geordie Carlisle wouldn't need Jem at the eleventh hour for one of his murders (a rather bad spate have been going around lately. Not that they're ever _good_ but these are especially grim.) As to the rest, consider the sentiment reciprocal. No one could be insensible of the family you and Gil and the others have given my daughter than I am.

* * *

Ingleside,  
Glen St. Mary,  
April 1925

Jo,

You ask for news of our people and I do not know where to start. Miss Cornelia is shocked several times over. In the first place, our manse is whispering of things with Latinate names (I'm quoting here) that do not sound hygienic (I am still quoting; attempts to explain the _washing_ part of a Mandatum did not take). In the second, she is _certain_ she has seen your daughter on the arm of the Methodist Minister's son. She probably has; he now walks her back to Ingleside of evenings and I have the devil of a time stopping Anne and Susan from lying in ambush to invite him in for tea. (I have a harder time hinting to her that she would be more than welcome to do this – perhaps you fancy a try?) Details mostly come to us through the circuitous route of Crow Lake, as I gather Nan and Naomi keep quite famously in touch and have done ever since the handing over of Swallowgate.

In an effort to put Phil out of her misery, the impression Nan gives is that it is not especially serious, only shaping up to be. She adds that Crow Lake is still under snow and Jerry doing a remarkable line in winter landscapes that bring him back into the house with hands practically blue from cold. The fire is always on in the house, I take it, which makes it smell pleasantly of woodsmoke, a state of affairs which causes me to conclude I had better join John in the Easter pilgrimage, as for all his virtues, mending recalcitrant flues does not make the list. I should also like to reassure myself that after six months of solid snow, that part of the family are still hale and hearty. Besides, there is a new salve courtesy of Redferns I want them to trial.** (I am not, as you know, always terribly convinced by the Redfern stuff. The pills do all right, but the rest of it I find wanting.) At what point, Jo, am I allowed to reasonably whisk them back to the Glen for safekeeping? It wouldn't make for such dramatic landscapes, I know, but I'd be able to see them and know they were well.

(The fact that we would have premature access to Nan's latest _Harrington_ has not a little to do with this, too. But that is the selfish part of me. No, all of this is selfish, but especially this last craving for one of her stories. We miss them terribly, Anne and I, and _The Record_ up in Crow Lake will not deliver here.)

With your permission, I am holding you personally responsible for the Mandatum, supposing it takes. (The Food Ministry venture still has not; it comes before the Secretariat again next month.) I would blame Naomi, but she is actually present, and Miss Cornelia a force to be reckoned with when at full sail. You, on the other hand, miles away, should weather it fine. It might even be enough to stop the community rebelling against the Lent appeal. Though if not, what does Una find the school in need of? I don't doubt she tells John, but unless he's got her letters in hand, he never seems to remember minute to minute. He does rather better, as you'll appreciate, with measuring his children's happiness, which seems much. But then, don't we all?

In other news, Fox Corner continues in amity. Susan continues bemused as to how they haven't all fallen out over the kitchen, and no one here has the heart to tell her that Faith and Kitty are more preoccupied with work than culinary affairs. The way Teddy's letters read, I get the impression they'd _forget_ to eat if he or Mara didn't put dishes before them with regularity, and Jem is not much better. (The children make up for it; especially if cranachan is in the offing. Strange stuff, if you want my opinion, but as Mara _won't_ you never heard that.) This would shock Susan though, so I don't let on. Her dizzy spells are back, and it's all I can do to think of a tactful way of diagnosing them. Perhaps when I have got Shirley here for the summer he can coax her around to the idea. In the meantime, I am avoiding shocks where possible, even such trivial ones as these. I do hope Phil's aunt Hetta fairs rather better. You must tell me if not.

John leaves for Crow Lake as of next week. You can expect news of our wandering Merediths from that quarter shortly.

Love to you, and whatever it is one wishes a minister mid-Lent. How is it I have never parsed that conundrum before now?

Gil

* * *

* _A bit of trivia for you;we put holly on the walls at Christmas because of an old domestic battle in Ancient Rome. The men were represented by the holly, and the women by the ivy. The men won, hence holly on the walls. By way of Constantine and Christianity, it got absorbed as a custom into Christmas._

** _Fellow_ Blue Castle _readers will recognise Redfern and his pills; they like so much else here, owe to LMM._


	6. Chapter 6

Caraway House,  
Crow Lake,  
Easter, 1925

Jo,

A joyful Eastertide! We are, as ever, surviving on no sleep. The custom here is a sunrise service, which I am almost certainly adopting next year. They have a vast, sprawling foundation down by the lake that is said to be the foundation of the first church here, St Andrew on the Lake, I believe they called it. We gathered there, complete with the community brass for accompaniment and a more joyful Eastertide I have never greeted.

This in spite of the fact that it was bitterly cold, such that it cut right through blood as a hot knife is supposed to do butter, and our breath was visible as mist. People stood on the bones of the old church, and around them, shaking gloved hands and haling one another in raptures, oblivious, apparently to the ice raining down around us. The sun came up as it was supposed to, but over a frozen lake still think enough to skate on, burning off the mist so that looked like the breath of God spread out before us. And all around, the snow, white and thick, came up to our knees, and pooled around our boots. Nan and Rosemary had to hold the girls aloft throughout, a task Jerry and I later took over when they were called on to assist with the bacon rolls. Gloves and orders of service being incompatible, we did away with the service booklets and stuck to the old favourites, _Christ the Lord is Risen Today,_ et&. Luckily, at six in the morning, no one wanted a sermon. I kept back the one I had intended until the morning service at Knox-on-the-High (it is _not_ reduced to its foundational skeleton) and will preserve the one I had drafted for _that_ occasion for next Sunday.

It may interest you – it will certainly interest Faith – to hear that I was stopped after the service by the local doctor. He introduced himself as a friend of the family, by way of Miri's myriad misadventures among the trees. But as we got talking it became rather apparent this was the Dr. Christopherson that Nan so often wrote of, and who, as it transpires, shared in Faith's war. She makes, of course, one of my more imperfect correspondents (though I am reluctant to compare – as Anne says, comparisons are odious), and apparently one of his too. So naturally he redirected all his questions about her, little Christopher and Jem _my_ way. Rosemary and I did as much as we could to satisfy him, and in the end, seeing we were causing a traffic jam, Nan invited him and his family back to Easter dinner, which gave us ample time to talk the connection over. He was in Kingsport not long before the move, I gather, so actually saw the children, and said with a look Gil would have envied that Jem 'would do.' We didn't half laugh over that, and it was good to meet this man who I had only heretofore hear of and stood father to my girl when I could not. I am sorry to have missed seeing the look on Jem's face at that introduction though. 'Will Do' indeed!

Good too, to have seen the children. Jerry and I went snowshoeing around the lake, he pointing out with nods and index fingers, the places he frequented to paint. We did not talk much; the air was cold and stung the throat. So for great swathes of the ramble there was only the crunch of the snow through our snowshoes, the snapping of branches and swish of the pine needles as we went past, the forsaken cry of a cardinal. We stopped, halfway 'round the lake, and Jerry fed them from a quantity of seed from his pocket, their bright red jackets alighting bold and daring on his fingers.

The walk put colour in his cheeks, and I understood suddenly why Nan so often drew him away from crowds towards the woods, those handful of occasions we have had them home. And I knew then too, why they are so rarely home. There are times I look at Jerry and think there is no telling the toll of this war of ours; this visit I looked at him and was only deeply grateful to Nan that she knew my boy so well, for adhering so completely to that verse of _Ruth_ ; _wither thou goest, I go._ She made very few demands of me at that haphazard wedding we cobbled together, but she was adamant that be the first lesson. Naturally I never argued, but I did not quite grasp then the _why_ of her wanting it so fiercely. I do now.

They will leave Crow Lake soon, I think, in favour of the St. Lawrence. It is further from Poppy and her family, but not so far as to preclude visits. And the black flies will be less in summer, which will make Jerry's work all the easier. For Nan's part, as she says, she can write _Harrington_ wherever; it wasn't so long ago she balanced _Johnston_ 's dictionary on her knees and wrote from the Quebec wilderness.

In our foreign correspondence, Carl is attempting to organize a jungle excursion for some of Una's ACS pupils through Raffles as something of a treat before the school breaks for the summer. The school is very thorough in its curriculum, and they have been learning about animals as part of their _Natural History_ course, especially about the tigers, which are liable to become extinct, if we do not take care. But there are also, as Una's letters frequently remind me, a plethora of snakes, fighting spiders, exotic fish, dragonflies and any number of animals perfect for observation in the wild. Una has no objection to the project provided it does not result in a second monkey, or indeed a tame snake. (She is already trying to quash an ongoing craze for fighting spiders, which the children keep in matchboxes and set to duelling at the eleven o'clock break.)

This stipulation comes after Puck's disgrace; he overturned a pot of stew into the sink the other day because Una would not increase his guava ration. This was bad all round as it not only spoiled supper but scalded his hands. Carl being out, it was left to Una bandage them and douse them in aloe, none of which was well-received by the primate in question. He was not even repentant; as soon as Carl got in, over bounded Puck to the chess table and they set about playing as if nothing had happened. As Bruce says, you couldn't make anything so absurd up if you sat down and tried for a fortnight. Nan meanwhile, observes that if the world does not get a book out of this adventure, they will have done it a great disservice. I almost agree, but then I recall that that is not the reason they went over to Singapore in the first place. Still, it heartens me to hear of them so settled, even miles from home. Laughter after all is, as Anne so often reminds me, the best medicine we have.

Love and blessings,

John

P.S. Gil is quite right about the Food Ministry. It has yet to come to anything. My Secretariat have adopted the Yarmouth line about being a parish of Ministry, not Mission. Like the tree planted by the water's edge, they are immovable. But we are trying.

* * *

Ingleside,  
Glen St Mary,  
Sept. 1925

Jo,

The children have been and gone in their usual hurricane. It was, inevitably, not nearly long enough. Jem's furlough didn't fall until August, and I understand even that occasioned tears, as Christopher especially was loath to leave the Carlisles, even for a fortnight. Jem, exasperated, on arrival, blamed the new proximity they have, being still at Fox Corner. _I_ think it is just that Christopher, like Jem at that age, reserves tremendous affection for friends, family, home and everything in its proper place.

Teddy could not get away, having taken his holiday earlier in the year – a family emergency, I want to say – though Kitty could and did. The way she tells it the _Chronicle_ editor was glad to be shot of her for a spell; Di says this is owes to Kitty being such a force of nature. They want to box her neatly into a safe, sanitised section of the paper, apparently, and Kitty won't be boxed. She won that police beat with great reluctance on their part. I can't decide if the editor deserves a slate to the head for sheer idiocy or a medal for bloody-minded pluck. What do you think?

Neither of them caring much for holiday, Jem and Faith both pitched in with my usual round, which freed up all sorts of time with the children. I took Jims fishing, and little Christopher too, as three with a miniature rod seemed a safe place to start. Jims was a bit nonplussed at this cousinly interloper, but brightened when Bruce Meredith joined us. Jims quite looks up to Bruce, and has done ever since he took Anne those mayflowers. I understand that in the book of Jims that is the height of grown-up activity.

Susan too got something of an enforced holiday, as Di and Mara between them routed her from the kitchen for the duration. I can't profess to understanding our children much, Jo. I always loved a good holiday myself; they don't seem to want to stop. Was it the war, do you think? Is there something in the idea that if they relax even for half a minute again someone will stamp a headline across the _Lowbridge Herald_ (Glen edition) declaring us at war with somewhere-or-other? Though thinking about it, I believe it is only our Kingsport Contingent this is true of. The few occasions we have seen Nan and Jerry lately they have been ready enough to stop and sit and talk with us of _shoes and ships and sealing wax/ and cabbages and kings_. So perhaps it is only city life, after all. Because I now recall you mending that chancel roof for your daughter's wedding, and if that wasn't supposed to be a holiday, I don't know what is.

For all that, I did manage the occasional chat with the children. As we made up a tonic for Sophia Crawford's headaches, Jem and I talked a little about life rather than murder victims. He made his ritual apology – he does it every visit – for not coming back after medical school and taking over from me. Usually I try and dissuade him, but I didn't this time. We had been talking about the Carlisles, an excursion they, Jem, Faith, Mara and Shirley had all been on to the Crown Imperial for some operetta I now forget, the children and Tuesday's misadventure with that rabbit. It was so plain he had laid down roots there, as I had once done here, that I told him instead about the letter I got when he was four, telling me old Dr. Lawson had retired and inviting me back to Avonlea to take his place.

Marilla was just beginning to be unwell again, and my mother already was. We would have been back on Diana and Fred's doorstep, the children would have known Lovers' Lane and The White Way of Delight. To say it was tempting does not do that letter justice. Of course we didn't go; couldn't as it turned out. To leave Ingleside and our friends…Anne once likened it to repotting a plant. If you don't make a habit of it, the roots become stifled and it wilts. (I think that's the process, anyway.) I couldn't do what he does, as I've often said to you, Jo; but I look at Jem arguing with Geordie Carlisle, and the way he makes Investigateers of all around him, and I know in my bones he could no more leave Kingsport than we could the Glen. My father had the grace not to ask it of me, even when he was dying. How can I then make that demand of him?

More than that meaningfully was impossible, the children seeming to run thicker together now than they did even as children. They spent much of their time a quartet, traversing Rainbow Valley. One would think all that time in one house would drive them to separate courses over the holiday, but apparently it's quite the converse. I'd complain, except that it feels _good_ to see them together, especially when I know in my heart they speak one another's language.

I did, as you'll gather, rather better by Di, who stood me any number of Othello and chess games. We talked a fair bit of the paper, and very little of dreams. She's always held those close, and I fancy still goes to Anne and Nan first with them. I pressed a very little, but subsided when she threw one of the Othello counters at my forehead. For such little things, they _hurt_. But we ended laughing over it; she'd really done it in tribute to her mother, as she says someone ought to keep me in check on occasion. I protested that I did in fact know a barrier from a bollard when confronted with one, but Di takes leave to doubt this.

They had missed Rilla and Ken, of course, who spent July in the House of Dreams, city papers allowing of longer holidays than the Kingsport Station House, Shirley's veterinary offices or _The Chronicle_ cumulatively, apparently. Nan and Jerry had talked of coming, but in the end wanted one last summer on Crow Lake. I don't blame them wanting a few memories of it in sunshine to take with them up to Morrisburg. After the winter they have had, they've about earned their summer. And of course, Poppy is guarding them rather jealously. Next year though. Easter perhaps.

Shirley could _not,_ incidentally, persuade Susan on the point of examination. She says stubbornly that she is not like some people – she means Olive Kirk and Ethel Reese – always fancying herself ill, and means to go on exactly as God intended. For the time being I have left it; it does not seem urgent.

Naomi, meanwhile, is safely back with us. Forgive me not leading with that. I am still taken up with the palpable departure of my own children. She arrived this morning. I met her off the 10:00 from Charlottetown, which for a novelty, had run to time. I suppose you are missing her already; I know I tried to persuade mine to stay on, shamelessly citing little Liam's upcoming birthday. No luck; he will have it in Toronto, Jims will document the event for posterity, and Anne and I shall live vicariously through Owen and Leslie's reports of the occasion.

Instead, we are making up the difference with your daughter, for whom Susan saw fit to bake no less than two dozen Monkey Faces, her fudge, a Bishop's Bread with marzipan top, several pounds of gingerbread and a Victoria Sponge. I don't know what kind of reception she anticipated our giving Miss Blake, but we did our best, summoning the Merediths and Miss Cornelia, who came armed with one of Mary's shop cakes, her hands having begun to grow too painful to bake as often as she used.

It is Indian Summer here and the roses are enjoying a second wind. They are quite magnificent, even so late in the year, so we took our bounty out on the veranda and inhaled the smell of them interspersed with the last of Una's Easter gift of Orange Pekoe. At least, I presume the others did. I was summoned out to tend to Mick Crawford, who had fallen from his hayloft, fairly early on in proceedings.

I did come back in time to catch Fred Arnold departing, which I am sorry about. I should have liked to have seen him go toe-to-toe with Cornelia, as must surely have happened. I have been meaning to ask Anne all day, but between visitors and patients have so far made this impossible. Look for an update in my next letter. Or perhaps John will have something to say on the subject. Certainly you must ask him about Carl's tame elephants.

Love always,

Gilbert

* * *

New Manse,  
Glen St Mary,  
September, 1925

There is nothing very notable in the elephants. At any rate, they have not joined the menagerie at Evelyn St. (The latest acquisition, you'll recall, was a cat of Bengal leopard pattern Una calls Nenni, after the Kippling, one presumes.)*

As I think I made mention in my spring correspondence, Carl and some of the Raffles lecturers had made arrangements with the ACS to take the children out to the Jungle as part of their geography work. (As you will have gathered from Una, the history the ACS teaches is English, but the geography is local.) Obviously, it is not altogether practical to take a class of ten-year-olds out into the wild and keep track of them, when there are such hazards as snakes, tigers and all sorts. This being the case, the school compromised on an excursion to Kedah, which from Carl's letters, certainly sounds wild enough. They set up at a lodge on the edge of the jungle, which place was passed every morning by an elephant and her calf. Carl being Carl, he took to feeding them bananas and sugar cane. This delighted the elephants, as well as their owner, who was good enough to offer the children free rides on the animals in return for the gesture. I don't believe Carl saw it as anything out of the usual at all. There were animals; he fed them.

It was sufficiently out of the common way though that Una's classes are now full of questions about Carl and the elephants; it has become quite a popular story, and more than one teacher has suggested it be written up for Composition. (Written up by Una, composition, being, as I understand it, something of a misnomer. The children listen to a recitation twice over and then write it out as best they can from memory. Essays don't enter the curriculum until much later.)

I'm afraid there's really very little to tell as regards that first visit of Fred Arnold to Ingleside. Cornelia has opinions, but knows when to staunch them. She did so on this occasion. I think she felt she would rather not spoil what amounted to a homecoming. Besides, she's fond of Naomi.

The only person really disappointed at having Naomi back, I think, is little Bruce, and that only inasmuch as her return means the resumption of classes. You will gather from this he is staying on for the High School curriculum, rather than going to Queens. He and I had a long talk after Easter about what he should like to do, and decided on the whole there was not much point in his taking a teacher's licence. The money he would spend acquiring one would not be made up again by a year's teaching, which is anyway not what he wants to do. Instead he will continue at the school, and sit for what Redmond calls the Queens' Scholarship. Rosemary and I are confident he will qualify. Thereafter, the plan is that he read sciences before going on to Medicine. Or that's the theory. Never did I think, all those years ago, that his admiration of Jem should stretch so far. And yet, he talks about it with the look of one who has swallowed the light of the world. I remember that look and that feeling; I am grateful he too knows what it is.

Love and blessings,

J.M.

* * *

* _Nenni being, as you'll recall, best beloveds, the repeated refrain of Kipling's Cat That Walked by Himself._


	7. Chapter 7

Maple St.,  
Toronto,  
Nov. 1925

John,

Your prayers have brought us safe through. Jo's too. Having no other explanation that holds water, I clutch at such efforts gratefully on your parts and trust to them as an anchor.

As predicted, it was a bad delivery. Quite enough blood to be called dangerous, and all the usual tearing, exacerbated, as it seemed, by the crowning head, which seemed much too big. The particulars were different, of course – they always are – but all I could think of was the birth of Shirley, and how close it came to going _wrong_ – and then I made the awful mistake of looking at Anne, and I could see her thinking it too, her eyes wider and greyer than ever. She seemed to fix them on me with a look that said _Keep my child safe._ I couldn't do otherwise. At any rate, I had to try.

Once, years ago, I lost our girl, all wee and white; later I was helpless to give Anne back her darling boy. I could not let this be the same. I got the slippery mass of a baby by the shoulders and hauled him forcibly into the world; Rilla was quite beyond pushing at that stage. He didn't like that _at all_ , but it did what was needful, and one Anthony Aloysius Ford was eventually delivered, at 6lb 4oz, small, blue but kicking and screaming – albeit in a kittenish sort of way – clutching the cord in his hands. I got it out of them before he could get it 'round his neck, and handed him on to Anne, the better to give my attention to Rilla.

By then I'd lost all track of time and was aware of only two things; the colour she had gone – a ghastly, ghostly white like little Joyce all those years ago – the energy she had lost and the coppery tang of blood on my hands. Sorry, that's three things, isn't it? The afterbirth proved abnormally troublesome; it had fractured into pieces along the way, and for a long time afterwards, even after I'd stitched her and staunched the bleeding, washed my hands clean, and spoon-fed her honey-water between rests, I worried we hadn't got all of it. I have been sitting ever since at her bed watching for signs of fever. Jims has lost one mother to such a crisis already, he needn't lose this one too.

And John, he _knew_ it was bad. Persis came by to distract him, and took him and Liam both up to Yorkville Avenue for tea and cake, thinking that would be adequate. It wasn't a bad thought. I mean, it wasn't a bad idea – it even worked with Liam – until they set out on the tram to see the university colleges, and Persis turned around to find Jims had slipped away. I don't think she was ever really _worried_ ; in the first place, Persis can no more do hysterics than the average elephant can fly, and in the second, she knows Jims knows Toronto. Still, it gave her a jolt. Luckily, she is sufficiently Jims's aunt to understand his psyche, because she appeared back at Maple St. not long after he did, thoroughly unsurprised, if nonplussed at having hauled a two-year-old across the city as part of the rescue crew. She couldn't be short with him though, any more than I could when his little, worried face peeped around the bedroom door to ask me 'Is Willa dying?'

Oh, God, John. Jims hadn't called Rilla that in _years._ I told him no and hoped I was right.

But now we are three days on and I feel I can breathe again. _The strife is o'er, the battle done_ , as the hymn has it, and I can focus my attention on the grandson I have not met, doomed to suffer alliteration forever. Poor, wee lad. At least no newspaper moguls were involved this time. Anthony Aloysius. May he be the baby of the Ford clan world without end.

Ken, meanwhile, has just about escaped an old-fashioned spanking. I wish Susan were here to administer one. She would do it soundly, dizzy spells of late or not. The _nightmare_ we have had, John. As I say, and fear I have not said enough, thank you, again and again, for those prayers.

Rilla laughs at me when I say such things where she can hear me, but John, if I never wrestle such an angel again it will be too soon. I have seen this one and it is dark, long and deathly. Forgive me, obviously all those years with Gertrude Oliver as was are catching. If I had my way, Maple St. would be content with its army of boys. I fear I will _not_ have my way, but by and by I will worry about that. For the time being the baby is well, Rilla is not dead on my watch, and Ken has escaped the whole ordeal without any encounters with a wet herring. (I thought about it. It was _exceedingly_ tempting.)

Talking of Gertrude, and in an effort not to be morbid, she and Robert Grant are moving with the children to Toronto. He has landed some banking position that requires him in the city, and they are taking a house on the Glen Road, which is very near Rilla. I foresee long years of taking tea together while the boys make a Rainbow Valley of the Rosedale Ravine. This picture I like much better than the one I have just had to ward off. Especially because Gertrude is under no medical oath and will have no qualms about the administering of herring when suitable.

Rilla tells me she need now only find a way to relocate Betty Meade – now Morris, if I remember right – to feel really at home. I fear this is probably unlikely, as _The Lowbridge Herald_ seems to have commandeered Betty's husband into the position of chief photographer. Never mind they are both Islanders to the bone. Still, time will tell, I suppose. It wasn't all that long ago that we would have disbelieved _Rilla_ leaving the Island, so it has been known to happen.

Am I right in thinking we are missing Nan and Jerry again this Christmas? I should have gone with you that Easter. It is an age since I have seen the little girls! I hardly knew them from your photos – and the books Nan sends us with their gold-leaf edging and McMillan&Stewart stamp are nothing like satisfying, though as Anne says, we cannot complain that we are behind on Harrington.

At least we will have our Kingsport Contingent and your Bruce. Already Anne is anticipating the masses, devising and revising menus, haunting Eatons for likely Christmas presents, putting people into rooms and guessing at the leaves we will need on the table. And it won't be long before I'm Fox Corner way on an errand not dissimilar to this one. Susan too – not even dizzy spells could keep her away for the occasion. It has been said – albeit with Susan-like vim, that she will even brave Sacred Heart should the baptism occur there. But I'm getting ahead. God willing, that is an _easier_ job than this. Well, it can't very well be harder.

Love to you and yours. I defer Christmas greetings until our return.

Gil

* * *

Martyrs' Manse,  
Kingsport,  
Dec. 1925

Gil,

Further to your last letter, be assured our number is safely increased by one; Miss Matilda Frances Watson is to be christened at St Andrews, Bolingbroke, this February. In the event you and yours are not otherwise preoccupied (and I know this is more than likely, the way things stand at Fox Corner), you would be more than welcome. Hetta Gordon has not stopped regaling Phil and I with tales of what good company you were since Ruthie's wedding. She and Mark are, predictably, tired but happy, and well pleased in little Mattie (this would be colloquial parlance for that mouthful of name – _what_ has overtaken the fashion in names?)

They are up with us for Christmas, naturally, and it is bringing those early days all back to Phil and I with a vengeance, though of course we are delighted to have them. Jake's lads are rather disappointed in their cousin, having, quite naturally, hoped for a boy and playmate. Sam's Evie is delighted, though her sister continues rather too young to entertain much of an opinion at present. Still, I foresee many years of raucous rounds of Red Rover and Blind Man's Bluff in our future holidays.

I am spending not an unsizable portion of this one running between churches. All three of them have got concert appeals this year, which is good for the ACS, for which Una has specifically requested resources, if rather awkward time-wise. So far I have contrived that the social events occupy different Advent Sundays but there are still Food Ministries between-times, chancel leak-proofing ( _why_ Gil, do they always wear out at the same time?), secretariat elections to sort, and what must be a village-worth of roofs to mend. You may recall there was a bad ice storm back in November, and in addition to tearing down a number of our birches and lombardies, it wrought havoc on my parishioners' homes. Simon Hazelhurst and I have organized a team to reshingle everything in time, but what with snow and sleet, and poor visibility, it will be nothing short of a Christmas miracle if we get the lot sorted before the holiday.

Larkrise, obviously, is still under construction, but with Jem, Faith and the children staying at Fox Corner for the duration, they generously offered the space, such as it was, to anyone in need of alternative accommodation for the season. More than one family has taken up the offer, and very glad they are of it. The men are even helping to hasten the addition to the house, as a thank you, or so I hear through parish grapevine.

The Martyrs' bell tower has suffered similarly, but as no one actually _lives_ in the bell tower, the problem is more aesthetic than otherwise, and will keep until the new year.

A happy Christmas to you and yours. May you ever be well, do good work, and keep in touch.

Jo

* * *

Ingleside,  
Glen St. Mary,  
25 Dec. 1925

Jo,

I have snatched a quiet interval (the children are snowshoeing; their children are resting) to reciprocate your Christmas greetings. I was summoned out not an hour before the evening service the other day to minister to Cousin Sophia, who has flu, but today has been mercifully quiet. Christmas Day generally is.

Ingleside has been gloriously full for the occasion, and Susan rushed off her feet with preparations. (For which she too is now lying down. It took the collective insistence of Jem, Shirley and myself, but somehow we carried our point.) The house still smells pleasantly of Christmas feast; goose grease, cloves, cinnamon, candied peel, the brandy of plum pudding in combination with burning cedar logs and a balsam fir ( _not_ burning, except its candles). We are, as ever lately, short the Crow Lake Merediths, but that is as much weather (they are under the ice storm you lately had) as it is Jerry's horror of trains. There is a lovely card from them sitting on the mantel in lieu; Jerry's watercolour, Nan's Christmas letter. If this is to become a tradition, there are worse ones I can think of.

Meanwhile, though I say it myself, I made an excellent Father Christmas; quite as jovial and benevolent as any child could wish. There were clementines all round, naturally, and peppermint rock for the children that were old enough. It got on their fingers, and even now the old coffee table and assorted furniture remain sticky with the aftereffects. This in spite of the best efforts of several different women to salvage it.

Carl and Una sent unexpected bounty from Singapore; the usual Christmas cake, but also spinning tops for the children. Jims and Christopher are especially taken with these and have already succumbed to the need to battle them.

Our piece of news this holiday is Di's engagement to Alastair McNeilly. This was announced over the roast goose, which gratified Susan, who believes roasts exist expressly for the conveying of important news. There followed much squealing and clamouring from the Swallowgate girls of the kind that left my ears ringing for many an hour afterwards. I thought I had _seen_ them at their excitable best before, but I suppose with a war on when I visited them, that was hardly possible.

I'm pleased, of course, but also that bit loath to let her go – for all she hasn't lived at home or been wholly mine in years. I suppose it was like that for you with Ruthie? All I have ever wanted is to see her incandescently happy, as I have been, as my other children are, and yet, she is the last of my ducklings to fly from Ingleside, and I do not like it.

I do not mean that, exactly. Only that I had thought the house could not feel more desolate than it does and find suddenly that I have been proved wrong. Though when it comes to the point, I should not be surprised; it has been creeping up on me for years, this engagement. I have even caught myself hoping for it, between-times, watching her dance at her brother's wedding, or hearing them laugh together. But no amount of expectation is preparation enough, is it? I shall be grateful that the wedding proper is still many months away; it will be our last until Bruce, I suppose, and Susan is determined that it will be, firstly, Presbyterian, secondly, held where Cornelia Eliot can bear witness to it, and thirdly, as extravagant as can possibly be managed. This last is directly contradictory to the wishes of the people most concerned, so expect continued reports on how we proceed. I suppose Susan can be comforted in the knowledge that Di has no Judith Carlisle to ally with against the Baker Cause in this instance.

(Though in fairness, Susan has never cast that alliance up to Mara; she can't, I think, because she knows as well as the rest of us that had Susan had daughters they would have been not unlike Mara, only Presbyterian.)

Before I forget, wonderful news about Miss Mattie (I do hope she forgives me the liberty; tell her I remember her mother from a baby). If we can get to the baptism in Bolingbroke, we shall. But you know what babies are – no sense of a timetable. Either they're early, late or wait until the last minute to slip into the world unannounced. I refuse to lay guesses as to which route this one chooses; I would almost certainly be wrong.

Much love from all here, and tell Naomi to haste ye back. John has taken to trying to wrangle lectionary with _me_ in her absence, and I know exactly nothing about _Micah_ (incredible I know!) and still less about Church Year C!

Love ever,

Gil

P.S. Anthony Aloysius, who _did_ travel down from Toronto, with his mother – against this doctor's _express wishes_ – insists Miss Mattie be informed her name is nothing to write home about. It is positively ordinary. One can even shorten it nicely. Even _Anne_ is defeated by Alliterative Anthony's name. At this rate, I strongly suspect Jims's use of 'Buttons' – for the way he buttons his eyes when sleeping – will stick.

* * *

Martyrs' Manse,  
Kingsport,  
Jan. 1926

Gil,

I see nothing unreasonable in such sentiments as you write of. That is, the father in me cannot fault them. I said to John when Naomi first left for your Glen that if I had my way, she would stay perpetually at home. Rather, I meant that had my way as a parent prevailed this should have been the case; the minister in me was loath to squash her. And yet even then, knowing full well the needful thing it is to stand independent to family, the father in me overwhelmed the minister. _Even as a hen gathereth her chickens under her wings_ and all that, I suppose. We have weathered as no father should ; Walter, Andrew, Jem's capture, and Sam's brush with death, the old dreams and ambitions that should have built up John's Jerry but could not. We and so many others, have looked these things in the eye, have acknowledged the thief time has made of their childhoods, and we have gone on as best we can. And yet, after all that, what can be more natural than to want them close, to cradle them a little longer, as though in swathing bands still?

I recall Phil saying, when the telegram came with Andrew's name on it, and we knew we should never get him back, that she felt like a sieve; all peppered through with rents and holes. I thought of Psalm 22, _They trusted in you and were not disappointed_ and prayed that was still true. And I thought when the war ended and they were again under my roof, I'd make good on Matthew's promise, gather them to me as a hen does its chicks, and keep them ever before me.

It didn't happen like that; they had lives and interests, and as you've observed before now, roots elsewhere. If I had not quite grasped what Phil meant reading that telegram – what it was to be shot through with holes as a honeycomb – I did then, and told her so. I had not known before that joy could be painful.

John wrote then, or perhaps later – when Ruthie left – of being surprised by joy in his children. I have not his cleverness, and will not pretend it here, except to say that he was right in this. Never have I felt richer than I do now, in wrestling with Jake's boys or rocking Sam's lasses to sleep of an evening. I have seen them lighted up like Roman candles with cups that runneth over in happiness, and it has almost taken the sting out of the separation. It never does make it easier, though.

To that end I shall be thinking of you as I help Ezekiel Murray to clear his eaves. It is the best prayer I know, and I am due in his company presently.

May you in this, as ever, be well, do good work, and keep in touch

Jo


	8. Chapter 8

Fox Corner,  
Kingsport,  
Feb. 1926

John,

He is here. We were ambushed by him the other evening, just as dinner was drawing to a close. Prayers were answered and it was indeed easier than the Toronto Trial By Fire back in November – a good deal easier. Faith and Judith Carlisle made for commendable assistants, which was part of it, but quite a lot owes to the baby himself, as _this_ generation's little brown boy did not, apparently, feel the need to stay the hour of his arrival. Neither, it turns out, is the tendency to nearly kill one's mother by preeclampsia a hereditary thing, which gratifies his grandfather exceedingly. I don't think I could have done _that_ over again. Once with Anne was quite bad enough.

This did nothing to relax Shirley about it at all. Do you know, I don't believe before this, I had ever seen him really anxious about anything? That _cannot_ be right, and yet I know it is. Rilla was mortified to be seen carrying a cake, and Nan got it into her head that she was not really ours, but Shirley has no such equivalent story – and of course, I know so little of all their wars.

Jem, by contrast, was having a hard time not saying _I told you so_ , obviously vindicated for having done his own share of anxious waiting twice over, while his brother tried to bring him round to rationality. At least no one had to persuade Shirley out of the house; he went willingly enough to the Carlisles' on the assurance Judith would ring any news over immediately.

She did, and it was all anyone could do to get a look at the baby, as by then Susan had pretty well taken him hostage and was enumerating his good points to anyone who would listen, from ears to stature, to the curl of his toes. She has only willingly yielded him up to his mother, and would not, I think, have done that had it not been strictly necessary.

The baby, in the interests of thoroughness, answers to the name Iain Alexander, which is so normal and reasonable as to leave me faintly stunned. I had begun to think normalcy in names had gone out of fashion. He is, as I have said, brown as Shirley ever was, from thatch of hair, to eyes, to that same tan colouration of skin, and Susan is devoted to him. The Magi never adored the Christ so worshipfully.

This has not stemmed her best efforts to run an unfamiliar kitchen with a 7lbs infant on her arm, so that Anne and I began to think the danger was really that she would set up permanently at Fox Corner. An understandable sentiment, but also fairly likely to vex its inhabitants, who for all their love of Susan, have only just had the house _back,_ what with the departure of the Larkrise set in January. And as we've established, Mara is not over-eager to hand the house over to other people's running, regardless of circumstances. (This has not stopped Judith Carlisle delivering what seems an endless stream of everything from casseroles to salted herring, but as this bounty muse needs be heated by the house's rightful owners, it is an acceptable offering. Or something. I don't make the rules, I just observe them.) Consequently Anne and I lost the best part of yesterday evening, while the young people were gathered together, in enumerating all the things we should miss if Susan did not return to Ingleside with us. Company was very high up that list, as you'll appreciate. Whatever else she is, Susan is never dull, and she continues even now, very good value for teasing, though Anne disapproves of such diversion whenever I attempt it.

Susan, of course, protested resolutely that she wouldn't _dream_ of leaving Mrs Dr., Dear to run Ingleside all on her own so that was all right. Certainly it earned me quite the unexpected hug from Shirley later; he has never been especially demonstrative with family (no, that's not right, I mean with me), and I hadn't expected the concession. But he said as we tramped through the woods, just the two of us, 'I'm glad she's where you can keep an eye on her, Dad.' We were en route to some job he had waiting on Route 31, as Kingsport is becoming Waterford, and I was struck by how rare are conversations like that between us, so much so, I was caught short. We walked along, the damp air pungent with the smell of thawing mud and mouldering greenery, the salt tang of sea air in the distance, and I reached for words I didn't have. Once it was inadequate to explain to Dad that _of course_ I would look after Mum, whatever happened. This felt the same. Such a natural thing, to try to justify the doing of it was almost redundant.

Finally, because I had to say something, I pointed out that Jem and Faith would likely do the same, it was only what any doctor would do. Shirley shook his head and said, 'Mother Susan would never listen to little Jem; she will to you.'

Then we were out at the farm in question, and I watched him ministering to a particularly recalcitrant and colicky horse and thought, not for the first time, how very like _my_ Dad he was. I watched him soothing and shushing and feeling the bones of skirmishing forelegs, and only _then,_ in that stall full of residual silage and hay, and horse-muskiness did I realise the tribute to Dad in little Iain's name; I had forgotten it was the Scotch for _John._

Coming back through the cold and the early-setting sun, amid the warbling wrens, the circling cormorants, and new-falling snow, he said, 'You'll tell me how Mother Susan is, won't you? If anything changes, I mean.'

That made me wonder, suddenly, if we'd been right, Anne and I, persuading her to come back with us. I must have said it aloud, because Shirley laughed, a hearty sound like a plucked cello, and said, 'Of course you were. The only reason she and Mara have never yet killed one another over that kitchen is because they've never been together long enough to reach that point.'

It rang so true that I joined him laughing. The wind caught it up and sent it out over the murky, muddy fields like a trumpet blast, and I risked putting an arm around him. I said, thinking of Iain, 'You've made Susan very happy, you know,' and there was more laughter.

'You and Mum too, I hope,' he said. And then we were back at Fox Corner, the four o'clock twilight falling fast, the malty smell of Assam tea floating out the window, mingling with the freshness of the snow and the spice smell of Chelsea rolls, all cinnamon-scented and warm.

'Just in time,' said Anne to us by way of the open window, where she stood waving us in. Drinking in the outside, I shouldn't wonder – Anne is always half-dryad to me, you know, even in winter.

We got in out of the cold, and Susan clucked, and Shirley deftly got the baby away from her in a gesture that defied the rest of us. Mara had risked leaving the confines of upstairs, and I declined to argue. Faith has a theory it's better to be up and moving than lying down, where possible, after a lying in, and I am beginning, albeit slowly, to see her point. The Carlisles were there, and Jem with the children, Teddy and Kitty too. The current murder was under investigation, and it didn't matter how often Susan invoked the wee ones, none of our children paid her the least mind. (Neither did they point out Christopher's seeming attentiveness, and nor did I.)

I shall be sorry to leave, for all I have had to remind Susan we couldn't stay. There has been heart in this visit, and I'm glad of it. If I didn't see nearly enough of little Christopher, if Teddy and Kitty monopolise Helen fiercely, I cannot really complain. It is good to see they are established in their families as my own children were at Ingleside. Besides, I have promised Jo to make the pilgrimage to Miss Mattie's christening. I wouldn't miss it for worlds.

We'll be home soon, but until then, all our love,

Gil

* * *

Martyrs' Manse,  
Kingsport,  
March, 1926

Gil,

Lovely to have had you with us. Hetta Gordon is especially glad to have caught you since, as you will be unsurprised to hear, it is probably one of the last occasions she will bless us with. She has not been at all well these last few months – I make it from November – and declining rapidly. I rather fear the next occasion to call us to St. Andrew's, Bolingbroke, will be her funeral. She is not, however, insensible of this, for she took me aside shortly after arrival at Mount Holly and said she had made the arrangements quite plain in her will, so as to avoid all confusion. She worries, I think, that such pomp and circumstance as her taste runs to will die with her, and certainly Phil has never shared it. But Ruthie and Mark, who continue with her at the house – and who will, I suspect, inherit it, unless I am very much mistaken – incline rather more her way than ours, and will, I think, preserve her memory in such occasions as they have cause to organize.

In cheerier news, I have finally met your latest descendant, as returning from a discussion with young Neil Abbot about joining the church gave me cause to pass by Fox Corner. I should clarify; I do not always drop in when passing, remembering well enough what it is to have a quiet familial hour interrupted by unannounced visitors, but did want to see how they were getting on. I found a meeting of the Investigateers in session, to which I was readily invited to join. Geordie Carlisle had got some piece of evidence on the table, and they seemed to be passing it between them for inspection, the women being of the opinion that the murderer was much too neat for a man. Why else collect blood in a bowl under the victim's head? (A fine question, but one wonders why one would want to do that kind of harm at all; years of prison visits later and I am still none the wiser. I do try.)

Teddy had got hold of Iain, and was rocking him contentedly, here and there offering an opinion. Actually, he was absorbing opinions as a sponge and adhering to whichever had been presented latest, while the younger Carlisles and Blythes climbed his person as a tree. Seeing me, he offered me loan of the baby – not, naturally, without looking to the parents for permission – and on my accepting, set out to indulge the children in a game of Circus. This took them outside, where we presently lost track of them. The Investigateers temporarily shelved the murder inquiry and I got a proper look at little Iain. He was sleeping on this occasion, and turning windmills, even in his blankets, a habit I am assured, he acquired long before arrival into the universe. Still, he seemed in good health, and the children too – tired, of course, as is ever the case those first, unaccustomed months, but happy, and certainly well. Shirley said something about Susan threatening to come back for the baptism. It might soothe her a little to hear that this will probably be Patterson St., in light of Rome's inclination to count baptisms from just about everywhere from the kitchen sink to the font. Only, she had better not expect the habit to stick. I strongly suspect this of being the first and only time we are blessed with wee Iain's presence at Martyrs.

I did not stay long thereafter, not liking to hold up their investigative ventures, and having an appointment with Martin Gibson to discuss the church heating, which is in dire straits. Happily, this did not last long, and I was able to catch the tail end of Jake's visit with the little boys before they set off for Halifax.

The house is, as ever after a visit, flatter and duller than previous. It seems an age rather than months before we have them back round us for Easter. In the meantime, I content myself with watching over your children, and pray that they and you all continue to be well, do good work, and keep in touch.

Jo

* * *

Martyrs' Manse,  
Kingsport,  
March, 1926

John,

It is out turn for a snowy Lent, and just in time for such heating as we have at Martyrs to fail. So far my collaborative effort with Simon Hazelhurst and Martin Gibson to mend it has met with limited success; it hisses noisily, and leaves the impression that we on Patterson St. are possessed of a water-feature. We are _not,_ and it is excessively worrisome. But neither do we have an engineer, nor the money to summon one. What with the snow, it is getting so that people can see their breath during the hymns, which is never a good sign, and I have lately caught myself condensing the sermon with the express purpose of getting them home to the warm sooner. Not very holy, I'm afraid, but I see no sense in making my congregants ill with prayerfulness. It's one thing to _worship the Lord in the beauty of Holiness_ ; quite another to worship him while turning white and red and blue with cold like a union jack. I worry especially about the children; my own, having Phil's circulation, always went cold faster than blinking. Iain is snug up at Sacred Heart (they _do_ have heating that works; I asked Fr Emmery), and Christopher warm-blooded enough, but I am less sure of Helen. Needless probably, but she engenders that sort of protectiveness from the universe.

Shirley, meanwhile, has promised to have a look at our radiators, though he and I are unsure what this will avail except perhaps a pair of new eyes on the problem, while Faith is kept busier than ever, what with tending to the flux of colds and fevers brought on by the sudden turn. Nothing, she says, does quite so thoroughly for the body as the shift from cold to mild to cold weather again. As Phil and I have only lately vanquished the lurgy ourselves, I feel disinclined to argue with her.

Christopher and Helen, in the improbable way children have, remain in the rudest of health. They are even delighting in the late gift of snow, though I, for my part, am grateful it is nothing on the scale of what you described up at Crow Lake last season. They can be seen running wild through the woods, with Tuesday in pursuit and Teddy half a league behind them, squealing and squeaking mightily as they dash between houses for biscuits and hot cocoa.

Little Iain too has dodged it, but succumbed to what Faith makes a rather nasty ear-infection, leaving all at Fox Corner shorter of sleep than normal. As she has offered some remedy that seems reasonably effective, and Judith Carlisle has staged a forcible take-over of affairs culinary until the epoch passes, Phil and I have not dared to interfere beyond offering moral support. We _did_ offer to have Christopher and Helen for a spell, but Teddy guards them rather jealously and said it was no trouble at all, his minding them between work. So that was that. Kitty though, deigned to bless us with company, coming up the other evening to put finishing touches on the Lent newsletter and run it past me for approval. I fear I understood perhaps one word in twenty, so spent a large part of the time nodding optimistically, and was gratified to see that Phil, opposite me, was equally mystified by all the talks of proofs and typesetting. As ever when Kitty is 'round, I am left with a shockingly vivid impression of what your Faith must have been like at that age. Especially when, on her way out, she overturned a ceramic vase Phil has hated since we were gifted with it. It fell to the floor in riotous pieces, and Kitty with it, though she came away with only a nick to her shin. Phil was delighted.

Are you still set on a sunrise service for Easter? And if so, have the secretariat been won round to the cause? Do let me know; if you can bring it off, I may yet try the same here next year.

In the meantime, may you be well, do good work, and keep in touch.

Jo


	9. Chapter 9

New Manse,  
Glen St. Mary,  
May, 1926

Jo,

I gather congratulations are in order. In the event Anne hasn't written ahead, your daughter is under _strictest_ instructions (emphasis Anne's) not to be married in a hurry, as the school board is loath to let her go. Notwithstanding lessons on the Mandata and Bede of Jarrow, they board knows when it is on to a good thing. It is on to a good thing with Naomi, not least because the children are devoted to her. The fact that they are better rounded than they ever were under Miss Resse's tutelage is an added benefit.

Anyway, we got to hear of it the other evening. Rosemary and I had called round, and were sitting out on the Ingleside veranda, the lawn half-wild with blue-eyed grass and chickweed. Susan was saying she'd have to root them out, and Anne musing on the smell of new grass, so particular to musky May, and the perpetual dampness of it, saying it always made her think of the cathedrals they had toured in Europe. Then the children came up the walk, pink-cheeked from the wind, and of course Anne guessed at once. Naturally, she let them have their say – they were so obviously happy. They had been walking out to the Harbour light to catch the sunset, which I gather is how they got onto the subject. Only your daughter, Jo, could possibly shift conversationally from discussion of _Good Friday Riding Westward_ with a sweetheart to the receipt of marriage proposals. I do not understand at all, though Anne seemed to, and I suspect Nan would, had she been here. Susan certainly did not, but she understood what had happened, because she recognized the former Mrs Arnold's ruby engagement ring. Apt, Fred said, for the old verse, _her price is far above rubies_. I cannot tell you what Susan made of that, because she did not hear it. She had run into the kitchen and – from the sound of it – clattered about there until she found and emerged with a buttercup cake. She had intended it for the Mission Quilting Effort (still ongoing and now piecing some kind of windmill design) but as Susan wasted no time in cutting it into thick, creamy slices to mark the occasion, they will now miss it on Thursday next.

Early evenings in May being still fickle, as you'll appreciate, it grew cool soon after and we retreated to the shelter of the Ingleside hearth, the young people lingering a minute or two longer. As Anne says, in such moods one never does notice the cold. I suppose she is right.

We _did_ manage the sunrise service this Easter, and though I say it myself, it came off with flying colours. I thought I'd told you. Do forgive the lapse. We convened early by the Harbour Light, this having the best vantage point, and said the Easter Rite as the sun washed the water in gold and fire. Ned Burr had got together something like a band for the occasion, and they led us through the hymns, the seagulls joining in lustily, and the cormorants with them. The air was crisp, cold and salted, and all around people traded hugs and handshakes.

Afterwards, we went along to Cornelia's, where she with Susan and some others had organised for the distribution of bacon rolls for an Easter breakfast. People ate them through gloved fingers, standing about on the lawn, the smell of the bacon mingling with Cornelia's prized forsythia. Children rolled eggs competitively across the grass, calling and laughing to another while their attendant adults contented themselves with pleasantries that buzzed as bees. I looked at them and thought that this was what fellowship was supposed to be always, the glad racket of it and the excitable clamour as the children ran underfoot. I should have liked our children to have seen it, but suppose we cannot have everything. Instead I have written an account of it to Una, who has been busy in readying both the ACS and the nearby Presbyterian church for the occasion. Her letters are full of Golden Verses and flower arrangements.

Carl, meanwhile, reports the addition of a dog to the household. It is of middling size, mottled red and black, has a crooked tail and battered ears, and has been christened Akela. At this rate I will not be at all surprised when he or Una writes of the acquisition of a child off the front doorstep, name Mowgli. So far no such thing has happened, to the infinite relief of Nenni the cat, aptly named, as it turns out, because she does indeed walk by herself. Lest this had ever been in doubt (it wasn't; she and Puck spar routinely), she spent a long quarter-hour staring at the canine interloper, before leaping onto its head, hitting it hard on the nose so that he squeaked, and then leapt off again. Carl said she looked quite like a cat off the comics pages of the paper, her back arched and tail bristling. She then stalked off, as Carl supposed, in spotted magnificence, to nurse her offended dignity, but he afterwards found her in the kitchen, lapping coconut milk delicately off a saucer at Una's feet. He tends to think, therefore, that any grievance was superficial only, and the whole act intended to put Akela in his place. Una is only grateful he is not another monkey, though that hasn't stopped her restricting him to the hall, of an evening. He sleeps across the coconut matting at the door, and barks whenever an owl so much as hoots. (The cat, meanwhile, has a place by the kitchen fire that she defends scrupulously. Carl suspects favouritism here, and so do I.) As Una observes, there is no danger of their ever being burgled _now_ \- nor of their sleeping through the night ever again.

Love and blessings to you and yours,

J.M.

P.S. How does Hetta fair? Gil has taken to diagnosing her whenever he gets one of the Larkrise doctors on the phone, and of course none of them is _there_ with her, so they all turn to me – by letter or over tea – to vent the frustration of not being able to take a proper chart. Do put us non-medics out of our misery?

* * *

Martyrs' Manse,  
Kingsport,  
May, 1926,

Gil,

Tell Anne she needn't worry; Naomi wants at least another year at the school before giving it up. She is enjoying the work, and in no hurry to leave her pupils. She and Fred both should like to be secure of savings, never mind a house, before plans progress much further. Phil assures me this is what comes of a manse upbringing; I point to your Jem and Faith and say it obviously is _not,_ as they were willing enough to subsist on Faith's grant money and Jem's residual allowance prior to his securing work with the Kingsport Station House. I think it really has more to do with Naomi being the most practical of my children, after Jake. I do not know where either of them got it, as it wasn't Phil and I. (Sam, while we're playing at inheritances, got my ideals but Phil's mathematical bent – hence the accounting. Ruthie, of course, got the Byrne taste for elegance and very little of me, and Andrew – but I cannot write of him and his loves without an ache. You'll forgive me if I gloss over him here.)

While we're on the subject of weddings though, your daughter was up the other evening, going over details with Phil. She and Di are trying to devise a battle plan that stops Susan making it the event of the season. What can I tell them? How likely is success? I get the distinct impression Di and Alastair might consider Jem and Faith's approach – that is a weekend spent in Halifax and a visit to the Water St Presbyterian church – except that she would like to have you there. Something you once said about wanting to see at least _one_ wedding. Phil, because she is incorrigible as ever, pointed out that you _had_ , but failed to carry her point. This vexes her, but only inasmuch as Phil likes to win a good argument. It is nothing serious.

Anyway, the way John's letters report it, Ingleside is perpetually wafting cinnamon and nutmeg spice across the valley while a famous Baker fruitcake bubbles into existence, and the choir hard at work on selections that are not _Jesu Joy_. I get the impression Rosemary would burn the offending music – or at least forward it to Una – if she thought it likely to make the least difference to the Glen choir's wedding repetoir. And all that was before pages and pages arrived from Anne hymning the virtue of assorted salads, roasts and I don't know what else. A question for you; how do I gently hint to the pair in my sitting room that the mission to reclaim control of the occasion is at best a lost cause?

Here the church heating continues faulty, though as we've turned a corner into spring, session talk is more dominated by the church fete than its restoration. Someone has suggested a stall purely for the gratification of people that wish to douse me in water. I was not aware there were so many, but I will do it if it will raise funds for the ACS (and also probably for the restoration of the heater – it wants doing this side of Christmas).

I fear I had better rush off; I am due at Niall Larkin's to clear the eaves. If I leave it any later I will be out when Sam and family arrive. They are coming down for a half-term holiday and I should be sorry to miss their arrival. Do give my love to all at Ingleside – and perhaps just pass on my apologies to Di again (she has already had them from me) that I can do so little to stem the general madness.

May you ever be well, do good work, and keep in touch.

Jo

P.S. Further to that last letter, Hetta continues about the same. What we thought was pneumonia in March was only a bad head cold. Ruthie and Mark are looking after her; there is really no need (though it would be much appreciated by the patient) for so much long-distance clucking.

* * *

Ingleside,  
Glen St. Mary,  
May, 1926

Jo,

They are coming here! To Ingleside! We will have them actually here, in the house, the walls soaking up the fact of being lived in, rather than inhabited again.

Forgive me, I ought to start at the beginning. You'll recall that back in the Christmas of '22 we contrived to get all the children home for Christmas? Well, one of the consequences of this was a set of oils Jerry did up of the Island in winter. Quite wild – the spume of the sea rising up like a mountain, the drifts of the snow like cliffs from the nadir of the valley, the ice sheets that covered the trees and bent them low to the ground, bowing like the Magi at the crib. The subjects aren't really the point. They've gone on to decorate the walls, so Nan tells it, of all sorts of elegant Toronto homes. The Fords began it, and of course from there people caught the longing for them like a fever, and the result is that the same people now want to holiday here. To which end that barren stretch of the shore road has been requisitioned by the municipality for holiday homes. Terrible clamour over it, as you'll appreciate. Change is evil wherever you find it, not just in the pews. Cornelia is leading the charge. I gather it's quite scandalous, spoiling the landscape for interloping city people.

I don't care. Di and Alastair will come to Ingleside and we will have them under our roof again and Jo – they'll be _here_. You must think me quite mad. I probably am, a little. It's a difficult thing to explain, because it could so easily have been any of our children, and I would be glad, but to have Di, of all of them...Well, you know she's ever been my favourite of them, inasmuch as one has favourites. Glen people will give you all sorts of reasons; her red hair, her eyes like Anne's - the combination of the two that eluded the other children – her practicality. And I suppose that might be some of it, my looking at her and seeing Anne, but not the whole of it.

The first time I ever held her, Jo, she was small in the way of twins. Her eyes hadn't settled and her hair hadn't come in, but she was the first of our girls, and I was overwhelmed with the sense of what it would be to love and nurture her, gratify her wishes and assuage hurts. Matthew had done it for Anne, an interlude of greenery in a landscape that was sheer and cragged. I used to feel the shape of it in those early days of our friendship. I'd look over at her under the shade of a sliver birch, face dappled with its leaves and see in the shadow-play of them the hint of some still, unquiet thing. Or we'd be walking through the haunted wood of an evening and she'd startle at a noise; a chaffinch taking flight, or the crunch of a dry branch underfoot. And I'd wonder what it was that could turn her in a heartbeat from dryad to startled hare, ears pricked and back taut.

I learned piecemeal over the years, but never, I think, the whole of it, because how to tell a nightmare? And so there I was with Di on my arm, eyes big and wide in wonderment at the newness of the world, all but brought to my knees with a need to keep her whole, because if I could do that, then maybe I could fill the void that the boy in me had seen in her mother. If I could keep her in food, clothes, the girlhood whims of the hour, be there to catch and cradle her and hold her in the palm of my hand, then perhaps it would set some cosmic balance right, nurture whatever iteration of Anne it was I never knew. It sounds absurd, put down in writing like that. But I wanted it keenly.

I tried to live it too; I think I did, even, for Di and all of them. Certainly they were a brazen enough tribe to scandalise Susan. I had, of course, resigned myself to relinquishing that particular eventually, to handing over care of her to some other person. I was even happy about it; Alastair and I have long got on, ever since that Christmas he and his sister came to stay and I saw myself in him, the way his glance tracked my daughter around the room without meaning to do it. But now I find that they are to come live _here_ and that after all I will still be allowed to continue as I used in some small way.

Ingleside is ebullient with it. We have loved having Naomi with us, but have ever been sensible that the world would claim her from us in time. And now we find that in a little while we are to have our numbers further augmented. Naomi has offered to migrate to the Manse, but neither Di nor the rest of us would hear of it, and so she stays on in what has now become very firmly her room. It even _looks_ hers now, to the casual passer-by.

It won't be for a while, of course. There's the wedding in the summer, and then they're going on to visit Una; Di says the letters she gets have piqued her interest in seeing it. Accordingly, she has made an arrangement with _The Chronicle_ to keep it in picture stories. Didn't I _tell_ you none of my children could do a normal holiday? Anyway, she isn't terribly clear on how long that is for, except to say they won't stay at Trinity House on Evelyn St so as not to get underfoot. Anne translates as meaning she and Alastair will want the odd hour alone, without say, monkeys, cats, dogs and friends underfoot. I suspect that in this, she is right. As I recall, we were glad enough on that first house of dreams evening to finally get the last stretch of night to ourselves.

Una, by contrast, writes to say that they are seeing it at entirely the wrong time of year and prophecies rain in spades. _She_ would rather have them at Trinity House for much that reason; Evelyn St is far enough away from the water that in the event of excessive rain it is unlikely to flood. The same letter also tells of the cat – Nenni (sp?) – bringing a snake in and laying it at her feet. The Una I remember would have fainted. This iteration of her looked at it, assessed it for being venomous, and seeing it wasn't deposited it out the back door before Carl could make a pet of it. He was sorry to have missed it, of course, but there are, apparently, sufficient snakes in the Botanic Gardens as to make up the difference. Though Una won't be at all surprised if he brings one of those home purely to make a point. I do not know, of course, but my impression is that she would be happier with an introduction to Li. I shall leave details to John.

I'll have you know I expect a full report back on the fete, especially the resolution to the issue of dousing the minister. Who's idea was that, and can we come up for the occasion? Christopher should love to have a go, I'm sure, and I'd be more than happy to aide his cause.

As for the madness here, no apology needed. It's pretty generally accepted that once Susan starts on planning weddings it's a bit like turning back a tornado. And if Rosemary Meredith has joined in the cause in the interests of preserving her musical integrity, no one ever had a hope of intervening anyway. Love to you, Phil, Sam and family. I do hope Evie doesn't take the ending of her holiday _very_ hard. Ours were always suffering eleventh-hour colds and fevers, in my memory.

Love ever,

Gil

* * *

New Manse,  
Glen St Mary,  
June, 1926

Jo,

I do not know which letter Gil was referencing; the latest snake _was_ venomous. It was also quite dead, and Nenni quite pleased with herself. Una was in the process of flinging it out the kitchen door when Carl intervened, and it is now on his desk, the better for him to make a sketch of. I think he means to bring it in to his students, though Raffles is out of session now, so one presumes that will not be before September, and I really do not know how well one can preserve snakes, or indeed, how long for. Anyway, it was a Banded Krait, which none of us had ever heard of, much less seen, but an excursion by Bruce to the library has yielded us the relevant _Britannica_ with exotic illustrations and alarming descriptions. (Carl would have it they are really quite tame, provided they do not feel threatened. The writer of the _Banded Krait_ entry does not share Carl's equanimity.)

But you were asking about Li. Initially I had thought it was Carl nursing that old wish to keep a friendship close that prevented his taking her up to Trinity House. I now suspect – in light of recent correspondence – it is rather more complicated. I do not think her family altogether approve the acquaintance. That is to say I know they do not from the things they have said on the subject. The Botanic Gardens are rather safe; no one there is angling to have Carl killed, anyway, so that is all right. (N.B. I mean that quite literally, not in the sense of the irate fathers who appear on our doorsteps betimes.) In the meantime, ventures by Carl to Chinatown or Li to Evelyn St are impossible. For which reason, she and Una have yet to meet. And of course, the only way Carl is likely to get his sister down to the Botanic Gardens is by orchestrating another excursion for the ACS. In principle, Una does not object, but as your daughter put it, talking of classroom excursions the other day, herding a crocodile of children is only marginally harder than herding cats. She still marvels at how Una ever got them to Kedah and back. So does Una. The Botanic Gardens expedition will not happen – or not as led by her – for at least another ten years.

Naomi, by the by, is quite the authority on the successful orchestration of infantine crocodiles, having lately taken her children in just such a fashion to the Charlottetown Museum. This was to close the term's history course, as there was rather a good exhibition (on loan from Toronto, naturally) about the trappers and traders. Strange to think that now counts as history. Rosemary and Anne went along to lend spares sets of eyes to the occasion, and arranged for the day to finish at the Corner House – quite the treat for the children. I gather they had a grand time, and spent the return journey playing at trappers and traders the way we used to play Romans and Greeks. What the outbound Charlottetown travellers made of it I don't pretend to know.

Gil may have a more cogent report for you presently; Susan wants to try samples of her confectionary for this wedding on a willing audience, and so the class going over to the 'big' school are coming up to Ingleside for a farewell tea. If Bruce is any indication, I expect the museum will still be the pet topic of choice come the weekend.

We got a good laugh out of your account of the fete. Christopher will have got that cricketer's arm from his mother, I shouldn't wonder; she could knock over anything quite effortlessly at that age. A grand thing for ninepins and soaking the minister, less so for Penelope Alexandrina's best chinaware. (This would have been Cecilia's mother; a more formidable woman I have never met.) Jem, of course, honed his football skills on Kenneth Ford and chasing his sister (Di, not Nan – he always made a pet of Nan) with creeping insects and all sorts. Helen, by the by, is still delighted with the sand-and-cotton lizard Teddy won her at the duck pond. She carries it around everywhere, often in her mouth. Faith thinks the texture must be soothing on her milk teeth but does not altogether know. And while I think of it – did Kitty _really_ elbow constable Benwick in the nose? I cannot imagine what he did to warrant it; everything I hear about him makes him sound positively mild.

Our own fete is yet looming. It is due Sunday next, and Cornelia has insisted on making a sandwich cake for the occasion. She has largely stopped – at Gil's insistence – but I think with all Susan's wedding fuss, she feels she must somehow keep her hand in if she is to hold her own at social events. The fact that our baking stall was already groaning with offerings _before_ she made this declaration is quite beside the point. No dousing of anyone with water here; the secretariat would be mortified by the mere thought. So the only way I am likely to be washed thoroughly will be if the heavens open upon us. I do hope they don't, as the church hall is wanting restoration and I keep forgetting to get a committee together to sort it.

Love and blessings,

J. M.

* * *

Ingleside,  
Glen St Mary,  
July, 1926

Jo,

The fete was a triumph. Susan's calceolarias took first prize in the botany stall, and her French Fancies (baked under duress but at Di's instruction) came second to Miss Cornelia's Sandwich Cake. This left Rosemary's Victoria Sponge to take a humble third, though she does not seem to have any objection; she says she never expects to place at all, being the minister's wife. It would look odd – whatever that means. Phil can probably enlighten you, and if she does, you might pass the favour on to John and I. _Years_ of such logic from Anne and Rosemary (Priss too, now I think of it) and we are still no better at parsing it, though it obviously makes sense to Susan, who doesn't deign to enlighten us. She's nettled, presently, on account of Cornelia's cake beating the French Fancies. Never mind Susan is new to making them, and did not want to make them in the first place. She feels it a point of pride that she be the foremost baker in our community. She has salved her soul by supposing the Sandwich Cake won out of sympathy for Cornelia's hands. All I know about it is that it was a very good cake, and that Mary Douglas called me 'round _expressly_ after the baking of it, with a request to please write up another prescription of the liniment I prescribe for Cornelia. I did _tell_ her to leave off baking. But there has never been any arguing with Cornelia, and as she no longer has Marshall to argue with, I really can't grudge her these competitive bursts with Susan. Well, the man in me can't. The doctor would like to lecture her soundly, but is advised by the man that she wouldn't listen and would probably roll her eyes.

I said so to Anne the other night and she burst out laughing, said I'd left out the part where I was solemnly told I was _just like a man,_ and proceeded to throw a book my way. No explanation. She does this sometimes when she thinks I might like one, but as I didn't know the author – Bennison perhaps? – was caught off-guard by this airborne recommendation. Do you know, I was five whole pages into the doings of Tilling before I realised why she'd handed it to me? (I flatly _refuse_ to admit how long I was realising these was one of the series of books Nan and the girls who pin hopes are all so keen on.)

Half an hour later, my brain having caught up with the rest of me, I dared to interrupt Anne's letter writing – something to Nan from the length of it – to ask which of our two was Mapp, and which Lucia. Naomi happened to overhear me and there followed a lengthy discussion. Susan caught the tail end of it, but as she couldn't make sense of it at all, went away none the wiser as to why we were laughing like three giddy loons. The Merediths got the joke though – or Rosemary did, and caught John up quickly – when they appeared, setting us off again.

In saner news, Naomi's pupils were up for tea the other day, which gratified Susan as it meant she got to draft me into fitting extra leaves into the table and foisting baking on young people. They were voluble on the subject of the Museum excursion, and the girls quite interested in the upcoming wedding – Naomi's I mean, not Di's. The boys parried questions about lace and dresses with a flurry of inquiries about our foreign correspondents. I suppose they have got to hear of them through the various appeals Naomi keeps going at the school in support of the ACS. Anyway, news of the Banded Krait had them rivetted, as did a more recent letter in which Carl detailed the particulars of a gardener he had met who befriends the cobras who inhabit the lawn of the High Commissioner's house. This made the girls squeal, so Anne hunted out photographs of the other children's weddings (read; Rilla's and Shirley's as those are what we have most of) to distract them. It was a great success, and their fingers grew sticky with combinations of fondant, water icing and whatever it is one coats a Chelsea Roll in to make it sticky. Certainly it was as lavish an affair as the Ladies' Aid ever sees, and you could tell from the curled pinkies and the bristling backs that the children felt themselves quite grown up. We sent them away laughing, around five o'clock – plenty of time to have thoroughly spoiled their supper.

You must be enjoying having the children down for the holiday. We are looking forward to seeing you and them in due course. But especially you and Christopher; I am hoping between you we can have a re-enactment of the ministerial dousing he and Tuesday made so famous! Until then, all our love,

Gil

* * *

* Gil here means _Benson_ for the author of Mapp and Lucia, as all Tilling devotees will recognise. I mention it as I'm not sure if I'm in a minority of one on that one.


	10. Chapter 10

_With thanks, ever to all of you reading and/or reviewing. I've been remiss saying so lately, but I do appreciate it._

* * *

Ingleside  
Glen St. Mary,  
August, 1926

Jo,

Lovely to have seen you here so lately. And _finally_ with the children all in one place! It has only taken – how many years to achieve again? (Under no circumstances answer that.) With Poppy down for the occasion I make it the first time all the Swallowgate girls have been in one place since Shirley's wedding at least, though she seems to have been often enough at Fox Corner since then.

Do you know, I didn't know the little girls when they arrived? John saw them lately, but I was still thinking of them as they were at that same wedding, still babies and just learning to sit up. There have been photos since, but that's never quite the same, is it? I mean, one looks at them and can't quite make sure they aren't playing some kind of trick on the viewer. But there was no mistaking the two knobby-kneed, impish faces stepping off that train. Mandy has got the Shirley tilt of the head to the letter, and the same way of looking slightly down and away from you when reticent, also the red hair. Miri, of course, is our nut-brown lass, though I notice her hair runs wild, no matter the pins and the plaits her mother weaves. She had even got blue grass in it, though where from is anyone's guess, all day on a train like that.

They hadn't been through the door half an hour when Miri had climbed her way onto the overhang that shields the veranda, giving Susan, Nan, and Anne all palpitations, and Mandy had scaled the piano in a quest to deconstruct it. I sometimes suspect Nan of watching the wrong twin. Every girl climbs roofs and walks a ridgepole or three, I should imagine, but Mandy's quiet mischief is a whole different character. Her mother, of course, had the nerve to say it was all my fault! And Anne agreed! All because I joined Mandy at the piano to show her how the hammers work! I call that decidedly unfair.

Seriously, Jo, I spent that whole first day ears pricked for arrivals and gloating in them as they amassed before me. The boy that conjured the ghost of his sister for a playmate as he traversed the prairie could not have conceived of a family like this. It was enough in olden days to have _Anne_ , to go wandering, just us two, _through hollow lands and hilly lands_. But then the children came in their richness, and _their_ children – and if sometimes I feel starved for their company between-times, I have only to gather them together on such an occasion as this one to feel the weight of such bounty after a lull. Other times I wander the house and take stock of them differently; Nan's gilt-leafed _Harrington_ books with _A. C. Meredith_ stamped on the front, Di's photos – many of them of family occasions – the model aeroplanes Shirley built in Queens days and a framed cut-out from _The Spectator_. You'll know the one; _One day a piper came through the Glen…_

Jem was next to arrive with a war-whoop, and one quite as bright and spackled from little Christopher, who tripped over his own feet in the rush to grab my knees and tell me all about the new stratagem he has devised for the tin soldiers. Teddy and Kitty were wrangling what I think must have been the case of the hour when they left Kingsport, Investigateers everlastingly. The girls followed; Mara and Faith, Poppy behind them, and Di, Nan trying to pull them all at once into a hug. Her arms weren't quite wide enough, so naturally they helped her along in this endeavour, and no one seemed to care that really all her attention was for Di. I think it was the same with all of the girls who pin hopes. The little knot they formed meant that, inevitably, I stood no chance of catching any one of them alone for the remainder of the holiday, much less my sunset-girl, but I found it didn't matter. It was enough to have them _here_.

Susan came in at some point and whisked Iain away to her rocker by the fire, which theft no one seemed to much grudge her. Jem had got an arm around Jerry by then and they were talking on the settle, Shirley and Alastair appropriating the chess set I had intended to interest Teddy in.

Much later in the evening the Toronto Fords slipped in, barely in time for dinner, Jims leading the charge. He cornered Bruce Meredith and they set to a very earnest talk about trains and which one had lately broken the speed record. Anne, Leslie and Rilla were by then trying to get a minute of Di's attention and ended up joining forces with the girls who pinned hopes, so that it fell to Owen, John and I to minister to Liam and little Anthony. Liam is currently experimenting with a vegetable-free diet, causing much maternal frustration. I had to invoke the Long-Armed Wailing Monster all over again, this having proved effective with Jims in the past. Teddy left off gently bickering with Kitty long enough to get Iain away from Susan so that Mara could insist she have something to eat herself and all while Naomie watched, eyes agog. I'd quite forgotten she'd never seen our family assembled in full force before. (I would here write presuming your children more civilized, but was gratified to discover over the course of your visit that they are at least as tearaway and wild as ours ever were. A shame Una and Carl were not here; they might have proved to her that at least some members of this crosswise family can do steady and sane. I know she has quite given up expecting that of _me_.)

That was the beginning, of course, but afterward – Jo, how does one write of what is surely the end of an era? The last of my little girls married – the last of the _children_ if it comes to that. John, as ever, made a lovely job of the service, and Susan outdid herself with the cake and its marzipan decorations. Well, you know. You were there.

It was lovely of course, but came with the queerest ache; we were watching and listening to the vows and drinking in John's prayer when Anne murmured to me, 'Doesn't Di look just the way you picture Joy would have done on her wedding day?' And of course she was right. Not, you understand, that I've ever gone actively looking for the likness in the girls, neither of us do, but we do stumble up against it of times. She'd have loved Nan's _Harrington_ , for instance; I fancy had she lived, Joy would have been even more our Nanlet's soul-twin than Jem ever was, weaving her any number of fantasy worlds to play in. But she'd have been practical when Rilla needed an anchor, and whimsical when Walter was sombre – and of course she get Anne's red hair. No doubt she and Di would have commiserated for hours over that legacy. (There's a daydream of Anne's where they play at dying one another's hair black – but I am rambling.) So of course, once Anne had said it, caught that likeness, I couldn't unsee it for a minute or two, dreaming up a sweetheart for her. One of your lads maybe, solidifying us officially as family. Not that I suppose we need that at this juncture, having grown well beyond such formalities.

Do you know, I thought I had grown almost used to seeing the children so happy again. I hadn't expected to be ambushed by the sting in the tail, the letting go of my girl, though certainly I braced myself enough for it. It leaves an emptiness, or perhaps a hollowness, somewhere in my middle. Approximately underneath the lung cavity, I think. Rather irritatingly, I strongly suspect there is no prescription going for it. I shall await a Redfern solution and content myself, meantime, with the knowledge that soon they will be back and under our roof again.

They are off now for Singapore and a visit with Una and Carl until the autumn. A long holiday, but an earned one. Di never has taken leave from _The Chronicle_ , and even in this she hasn't quite given them up. Already I am greedy for her share of letters, and more grateful than I can possibly say that your daughter continues with us until next year. Otherwise we should be entirely at a loss. Ingleside is _home_ in the old sense to none of our chicks any more. A strange thought, with an ache in it, but no less true for that.

Do pass on my love to Phil and the children. Anne and I were thrilled to have them here for the occasion. I trust Evie and little Emma were not _completely_ overwhelmed by our young harridans, nor too egregiously corrupted by them. Do let me know if you need a hand sorting that heating out before the cold weather sets in. I seem to recall Martyrs' is still suffering a faulty heater. My father would have been the better person for that kind of job, but I owe you a favour for loan of your child, and am acutely sensible of it, and I can stand for him in a pinch. You need only ask.

Love ever,

Gil

* * *

Martyrs' Manse,  
Kingsport,  
September, 1926

Gil,

There is absolutely nothing you can do about that heater. Shirley has looked at it, Jem has looked at it, Simon Hazelhurst and I have all but deconstructed it. Geordie Carlisle and Teddy Lovall reassembled it to no better result, all while ignoring Phil's indignant protestations that they shouldn't be doing this as it wasn't even their church and if the secretariat couldn't tend it, neither should they have to. Martin Gibson, Sam and Jake disassembled it again, for good measure, and exasperated, Jake suggested we call in an engineer. Investigation by an expert we could ill afford has revealed it needs some highly specialised piece of equipment only manufactured in Ottawa. Of course it does. Hetta Gordon, who has somehow persisted in living in spite of her double pneumonia this summer, has insisted on making a donation towards our purchase of it, for which my gratitude. The secretariat say only that this is what comes of efforts to modernise the church. I thought it was probably unchristian of me to remind me it was their idea to modernise the idea in the first place – not least because as of 1907 when that radiator went in, the church really was untenably cold of a winter.

I suppose you'll have had news of Di and Alastair's safe arrival by now? I gather from Una that she has seen them, and they are staying somewhere suitable. Not Raffles Hotel, because no one normal can afford the place, but comfortable even so. (She adds that for all she has walked by it, she has never seen the appeal of Raffles Hotel. It is nothing like the city proper, a weird sort of island of Britishers in the midst of a vibrant and varied community, from the sound of it.)

Our news is that little Mattie is shortly to be displaced as the baby of the family. Ruthie is dreading it, saying that once was quite enough. Phil and Hetta, in an alliance never before seen, are in agreement about the excellence of this news. So am I, though I'm also the littlest bit perplexed as to when my children became parents. The war was one thing; it seems that since then I have blinked several times successively and become the patriarch of a tribe of a tumbling, acrobatic small people. They are very delightful, often boisterous, and give me a striking impression of Phil as a very young girl, but I don't quite see how they came to be _mine_. I keep forgetting the children are not, in fact, still children.

More on this theme, since neither John nor I has the answer; when on earth did Bruce Meredith get to an age where he is old enough to apply for university? John's latest letter is full of his plans for funding, scholarships and all sorts. I still think of him collecting stamps and Scout badges, though thinking on it, there's no reason why he mightn't still collect stamps. Even so – I remember him as a baby! It makes me feel terribly old to think he will shortly be in Kingsport or somewhere of that ilk.

On which note, I am off, before I blink and find that I have missed the Elie session mission in addition to all the rest.

May you ever be well, do good work, and keep in touch.

Jo

* * *

Ingleside,  
Glen St. Mary,  
October 1926

Jo,

Never mind little Bruce, I have just escaped an animated debate about the details of your little girl's wedding, when I make it a week or so ago Anne and I came up for her christening at Martyrs'. How has _that_ happened? (You'll notice I have no answer re Bruce. He still talks trains with Jims, but now he also talks the finer points of ruptured spleens with me. It is disconcerting to say the least.) When I left, Cornelia and Susan were offering input, and Naomi proving by the hour that she has all of Phil's spirit and your patience – an admirable combination. Much needed too, as Cornelia was wielding a wooden spoon with terrifying dexterity and attempting a take-over of the wedding cake. How she plans to conjure a fruitcake when her hands grow more twisted by the day I did not like to ask. She would only call baking an alternative to the exercises I prescribe her in any case. (It is not, any more than you retiling the Holy Trinity floor is an antidote to your bad knees. Let this be a warning.) Rosemary and Anne would seem contented with arbitrating, and the occasional offer of practicalities – Anne's veil, Rosemary's gloves, things like that. I gather it's supposed to be quite important to have loan of things, though do not begin to understand why.

We have indeed heard of the newlyweds safe arrival, no thanks to my daughter, who is caught up in photographs. John got a letter from Una running the closest to an _I told them so_ Una Meredith is likely to get, as the whole country is thoroughly deluged in rain and the water levels rising. Di being ever her mother's daughter, she is entirely unfazed, and sees it only as an opportunity for good photography. Mind you, having seen some of the photographs by way of an edition of _The Chronicle_ (courtesy of Kitty), I see her point. The submerging of the causeway stands out particularly in my mind. Even so, I shall be glad when she is home – as will Mara. Apparently you don't grow up in a fishing family without a healthy fear of rising water. I don't know why this surprised me; as Rosemary subsequently observed, not by chance is the _Ave Maris Stella_ the anthem of the very Catholic, and very seafaring Acadians.

On the subject of uneasy things, the way Leslie writes of Toronto suggest things at Maple St are uneasy at best – my fault probably. Rilla has her heart set on a girl, presumably to carry on the tradition of nonsensical hats, and Ken has about had enough of waiting to hear from me whether the baby in question has been the death of his wife or not. Well I remember _that_ feeling. Thinking on it, 'uneasy' is probably Leslie carrying off an understatement at its level best. I must make an effort to have a word with Betty Meade as was next time she has cause to summon me out. She is many things, but not much given to understatement, and she exchanges weekly letters with my daughter.

Of course the little boys are all caught in the middle, with various degrees of grasping the situation. It can't be comfortable for any of them. In fact, I know it isn't. I recall only fuzzily the afternoon the doctor pronounced that my mother losing any more blood would be the death of her, but I do remember the atmosphere it left behind. A watery sort of thing that I never understood until Shirley was born and I had to fight so for Anne, and later Rilla brought my heart into my throat. If I thought it would do any good, I would go to Toronto and try and explain all this – but I recall too the fierceness with which Anne wanted Rilla, the way my mother looked, and I think probably my little girl wouldn't listen anyway. So I shall trust you and John to pray on it, and Leslie with her gossamer-deftness to navigate that water for me, and hope all concerned emerge whole.

Love ever,

Gil

* * *

Martyrs' Manse,  
Kingsport,  
October, 1926

Gil,

It's the photo of the family boating down what I make Middle Alley that struck me. When you wrote of Di's intention to keep _The Chronicle_ in picture stories I don't know what I expected, but it wasn't that. I am used to her catching those gentle, butterfly-wing moments between people, not to having the breath knocked out from between my ribs by the strange alchemy that is image composition.

You might just warn Naomi – or perhaps Anne and Rosemary – that Ruthie and Phil are wrangling for control of that wedding and attendant details at this end. This notwithstanding a letter from Naomi that everything was well in hand. And from what you say, it certainly sounds it. Personally, I am dreading it. I understand rather better now, how you must have felt as last August approached. There is something about the final severing of that familial cord that aches – though I suppose it is less a severing and more a complex kind of weaving together of families. Even so, the last of my children is no longer wholly mine. I shall be sorry not to have one of the girls go from Martyrs' – but don't let on. Your Knox will do quite as well, and I refuse to complain at another occasion to visit you and John. Perhaps we could even organise our shooting excursion for the Upper Glen afterward? It will take some of the sting out of the parting.

Perhaps don't mention that I have appended your Toronto connection to our intercessions. It's the most practical thing I know how to do, even as I realise that not everyone welcomes being prayed over like that. Rilla might do, I don't know, but Ken strikes me as rather the sort to keep his trouble to himself. I recall a letter of Anne's to Phil in which she mentioned Rilla agonising over the increasing shortness of his wartime correspondence. But perhaps here I do him an injustice. Know anyway that I am thinking of them both and the children likewise. They made for such impish little things at Di's wedding, I hate to think of anything snatching that from them.

And you can disregard Phil's letter on the subject of my sprained ankle. It was only a very _light_ sprain and would never have happened if I had been paying attention coming out of Waterford's Holy Trinity. I really must have the flags in the courtyard redone, preferably before winter sets in. Otherwise we shall all be laid up with bad ankles, and that won't do at all. Besides, we both know your hands are quite full enough trying to keep Cornelia and Susan killing themselves with work. To which end, may you ever be well, do good work, and keep in touch.

Jo

* * *

New Manse,  
Glen St Mary,  
November, 1926

Jo,

Can I take it as read that you'll lead the service? It is really the last of the details that needs settling – or perhaps I mean it is the only detail that cannot be negotiated over a mixing bowl and the Ingleside dining table. Anyway, Nathan and I have conferred and agreed it is really your right. Your doing so would of course soothe the souls of Cornelia and Susan, who for a novelty, agree about something and are pretending they do not, though that is hardly the point.

Gil is, predictably, all in excitable uproar over Di's return at the end of the month, though our foreign correspondents shall be sorry to lose their company. For all that talk of not staying at Trinity House, they were fairly often together, never mind the rain. Carl particularly enjoyed the excuse to show his city off to an appreciative audience. (I fear Una was rather otherwise occupied to have done much in the way of hosting – ACS work, but you know this, no doubt.) Piecing together the Kingsport correspondence, we get the impression Alastair's letters have been something of a catalogue of architectural nuances, and Cornelia is now newly dreading the holiday homes planned for the shore road. It was bad enough that they were going to interloping city people; the thought that they might look _foreign_ is a bridge too far, apparently, and her efforts to stop the project before it has begun have redoubled. This in spite of the fact that looking at Di's pictures in _The Chronicle_ the houses in question look positively normal – not that I pretend to know anything about houses and their composition.

You were asking about Toronto. I only know a little, you understand, but none of it is promising. Betty called in on Rosemary the other day and let slip over Victoria Rose and Ceylon tea that the atmosphere at Maple Street is still reminiscent of the average cold room. We are concerned, but also rather touched that notwithstanding the move to Lowbridge she still considers us her parochial advisors. Otherwise, Anne and Gil between them have taken to making an honest-to-goodness study of all letters made out in Leslie's copperplate. Tough we hear less than we otherwise might in light of Naomi's upcoming wedding. I fancy they don't want to spoil the occasion by worrying her beforehand about such complexities of childcare and marital life, as she often sits with us and Susan of an evening. Mind you, I fancy as your daughter, growing up in your parish, she more than likely knows her share of such things anyway. It's Jims I keep thinking of. Not that I don't think on the others too, but his little history has been more than usually malleable and twelve makes for a very awkward age, even in the happiest of homes.

In light of which, you will find no objection from this quarter about keeping our hunting nearer home next season. Between weddings, the Toronto Fords and Bruce's departure for Redmond, it will do all of us good to get out of the house, I shouldn't wonder. Gill thinks likewise and calls it a grand idea. There is even talk of Dick Parker joining with us for an afternoon, if he can arrange it with Dr Hargreave over harbour. If nothing else, it will be good to see you again. It's been too long.

Love and blessings,

J.M.

P.S. It has been pointed out to me _repeatedly_ these last few weeks in conversation with my daughter that you cannot lay flagstones kneeling on a bad ankle. It stresses the tendons or something. Ask Gil. Anyway, I am getting excessively tired of Faith telling me so, so you might do me a favour and listen to her. It helps Waterford, Elie and Martyrs' kirk not at all if that ankle worsens in time for Christmas. Especially not if that Yarmouth chap comes back and throws Mission out the window to focus on Ministry. Then where will you be?


	11. Chapter 11

_With thanks, as ever, for all of you reading and/or reviewing. I love hearing from you._

* * *

New Manse,  
Glen. St. Mary,  
Jan., 1927

Jo,

You will have heard, of course, about the great flood that went through Malaya, if not from Una, then one presumes from the Presbytery at Kuala Lampur. I did not realise there was such a thing until the Flood Relief Fund appeal appeared in this quarter's letter from the General Assembly.

I _was_ aware of the flood, Una being quite up to her elbows negotiating the fallout. All the children at Horley Hall have been sent on to her and her fellow teachers at Oldham on the Barker Road, where they are, though still low-lying, safe from the torrential rain.

They came from Ipoh by boat, if you can believe it, the trains being inaccessible and the causeway swamped at the Malay end. There's always flooding this time of year, of course, but neither ACS can remember anything like it. Needless to say, we are all very glad Di and Alastair returned when they did.

Una's classroom now overflows with more languages than ever, and though English is still the teaching policy, she finds herself absorbing here and there some of their Malay and Tamil, or trying to, as she does with the others' Chinese.

Desks are, obviously, out of the question, so have been pushed to the side and she and the children take all their lessons Turk-style on the floor, balancing writing materials under knees, sometimes using books for desks when necessary. It has made all their compositions hopelessly illegible, but obviously, this is the least of anyone's problems.

The dormitories, never designed to accommodate flood refugees, are in a dire state. To this end Una and Carl are now housing twenty-odd children at Trinity House with them on Evelyn St. She writes that it is not ideal, there being no proper bedding, but that the children are of an age to consider it a grand adventure. They are delighted with Puck, though Puck does not reciprocate the sentiment, and throws peanuts at them. The children find this amusing, and have begun to make a game of it, often when they should be at their lessons. In this Carl is very indulgent, often enticing them and the monkey to games of Ludo or similar, so that Una has to tell him off as well as them.

They do better with Akela, who after the first spate of barking, promptly adopted them as his kindred and now races between them after school, demanding strokes and lavishly washing their hands and faces while they shriek with laughter. Nenni, unsurprisingly, is deeply wounded by the intrusion into her home, and has taken herself to her basket by the kitchen hearth, where she sulks in magnificent, spotted fashion, pausing on occasion to wash her ears assiduously. When, inevitably, the children invade the kitchen to help with washing up or help themselves to portions for meals, she slinks away to the space under Una's bed and does not emerge until the coast is again clear.

(Una having long ago realised the table was inadequate to accommodate the influx of children, they take their meals picnic fashion on the floor, and she and Carl with them. They cradle bowls as best they can, and do what they can to keep Akela from stealing scraps, which is not much, though Una has adopted Nenni's method of hitting his nose for his trouble.)

And of course they came with nothing. Getting food enough has not been too much of a problem, Singapore being what it is. St George's Anglican Church and associated school have joined forces with the ACS teachers to get meals together, and the city-dwellers have been very responsive to the local appeal. Clothes are harder, and for the time being there is a lot of hastily dividing the resident boarders' possessions between themselves and the newcomers. This has left them with one uniform per child, and even then they are still short. Una's sewing circle is working overtime, but as all the women have other claims on their time, that is still insufficient.

All this has led to Nathan Arnold and I spearheading a clothing drive, writing implements and anything that might be of use, both to the Oldham School, but also in re-establishing Horley Hall, which I had not heretofore realised Rev. Arnold was affiliated with.

Needless to say, Naomi has been a wonder. She has integrated the appeal into her teaching, and the Glen children are now forever coming to school with everything from cuddly toys to unused journals and old jumpers. She gathers these things in cardboard boxes and brings them to me – or else the Methodist Manse – at the end of the week, often staying to help label them for postage. In a similar effort, and one we should never have thought of, she encourages the Glen class to spend their composition hour writing letters to the ACS children. Una has promised to get the ACS classes to answer, and altogether it has done wonders for engaging the class in its work. Gil tells me he has suspicions of next term's geography featuring Singapore and the Malay peninsula rather heavily, and I should not be at all surprised if this was the case

Bruce, talking of curricula, has been offered a firm offer from Redmond. This would be to read sciences, and I believe he means to take it. I do not like it at all; if he goes we shall be quite desolate. Naomi did offer to come to us, in the interest of giving Ingleside privacy again, but she is now so much part of the furniture that Susan would probably never forgive us accepting the offer.

What we have begun to talk of doing though, in consequence, Rosemary and I, is of my taking sabbatical as the secretariat keep offering and going over to Una and Carl for a spell. I'm not at all clear when this would be, so don't worry just yet. In all likelihood, you Gil and I will still convene this autumn to go after the usual grouse. I did promise you we'd go after the wedding, after all. Though whether we will ever persuade Gil to leave Ingleside again, with Di and Alastair in residence, is anyone's guess. Anne says not to worry; when I mentioned this passing by her and Rosemary at tea the other evening, she promised faithfully to chase him out of the house with a broom and a quilting frame if he looked disinclined to go. I gather that is generally the weekend she gets some of her most satisfying writing done.

We shall almost certainly hear from you before then, of course, but in the meantime,

Love and blessings,

J.M.

P.S. Little Bruce heads up the Scout troupe now. I thought I had told you. Do forgive me.

* * *

Martyrs' Manse,  
Kingsport,  
March, 1927

John,

I am just returned from Session in Elie. There is some talk of expanding our little parochial triangle to include New Waterford and Kilrenny. It's a General Assembly affair, in all probability, when it comes to the point, but Session are for it, and if it goes through, I think I shall have to swallow my scruples and buy that automobile after all. My parishioners may not have the means for such a thing, but my parishioners are not expected to dot equally between five seaside kirks. I don't _like_ to do it, of course, but I fear I am getting too old to rush everywhere on a bicycle. Ellie and Ruthie spent the holiday cornering me and lecturing me about how liable I was to break my neck someday, rushing between Fish Supper at Martyrs' and the Advent Appeal Carol Sing in Waterford. I fobbed them off, of course, but faced with New Waterford and Kilrenny I am forced to acknowledge my limits. Certainly they are both parishes in need of ministry – Kilrenny has been in interregnum for five years now – and if they are to do mine, I must do well by them. _I know my own and my own know me_ , all that sort of thing. I say it lightly, but that has long been the tenet at the root of my ministry. I know all my flock, their names and their grievances, even the littlest ones. Helen's love of cherry cake, Mrs Conway's fear of heights, Grace Carmichael's reluctance to leave her daughter alone, and that daughter's terror of drinking poison. Automobile or no, I do not see how I can continue this policy practically across a catchment area of five villages, and am uneasy about it. What good is a shepherd who knows not his sheep?

I gather from my daughter that you are still sending Flood Relief parcels over to the Oldham School ACS. We continue to do the same. Faith has proved vital in equipping the school – and indeed swamped Malaya – in medical necessities.

I cannot imagine what it must be to be displaced from home like that. So much uncertainty, and with no end in sight. All I could think of, this Christmas gone, with my children and grandchildren around me, was what a luxury it was to be warm and clothed and dry – and among our people. Gil and I talked not long ago of what it was to draw one's children close and hold them there. This holiday I wanted nothing more than to reach over the water and gather those children to us and help them to our table, though thinking on it, as gestures go, it's a fairly empty one. Few things are so potent as to be _home_ , and I'm sure there's no amount of food or clothing, or even shelter that could compensate them that loss.

Even so, Oldham has done as well by its' sister school as it can. But then, but then, I should not be surprised, as Una's letters have ever made the principal, a Rev. Peach, to be a reasonable man. Those same letters are short enough at the moment, and no wonder. The last one I sent her way was chiefly to inquire when on earth she had time for such mundanities as updating the Mission School and myself, what with sewing circles, boarding children, teaching others and organising assorted outreaches.

Be well, do good work, and keep in touch.

Jo

P.S. How are they for water, do we know? I was reading over Sunday's lectionary and was struck by the selection for Exodus; _They camped at Rephidim, but there was no water for the people to drink._ I don't know what I could possibly do about it from here, but if Nathan Arnold is affiliated with Oldham, he might have inroads. Is it worth investigating?

* * *

New Manse,  
Glen St. Mary,  
March, 1927

Jo,

I put the water quandary to Nathan Arnold. We talk more of mission than marriages at the moment – even from the couple concerned. So it comes as a surprise to exactly no one that Susan has seized control of the last of the wedding details, Naomi being too taken up with outreach to notice much.

Anyway, it emerged over our last discussion of the issue that Nathan has actually _been_ to the Oldham ACS on Barker Road, so he was in quite a knowledgeable position. He reckons they're surviving on the Johor water supply. This means about as much to me as did Sumerian to your average Greek, but the point is, it should be ample to cover the city population, even with the influx from Malaya. Una's letter – I too wonder when she is writing them – dated to late February, hopes they will be able to send the children home with the end of the school year.

I hope so with her, as I am appreciative of what you say about home. I do not grieve overmuch the lives my children have chosen, but the one thing I _do_ feel keenly is that Mandy and Miri should have nowhere to lay down roots, no place to absorb them at the end of the day, faults and all, to shelter them through storms and cradle them through what Anne Blythe calls a Book of Revelation. They will be six this November, and they have lived variously in the Kippewa wilds of Quebec, in the coniferred downs of Crow Lake, and now on the barren St. Lawrence river. They have waded in its waters, and climbed the Crow Lake trees (you'll recall Mandy charmed the squirrels), they learned to talk on the sandy floor of a cottage called Inisfree on an island removed from the world. They have laughed with loons, chased after the geese, skated haltingly on lakes and presently they are being schooled by their mother on the banks of the St Lawrence River – but they have never known _home._ I would give it them, if I could; the security of it like a well-worn blanket, the comfort of curling woodsmoke and safety of walls you know even to their bones, the feel of the mortar and the smell of beeswax on a scrubbed floor, but of course it is out of my power.

Perhaps, you will tell me, they are learning better things; to _lay not up…treasures upon earth_ , not least of these. You are probably right. As Nan writes of them, they are contented, imaginative girls with God's gifts at their fingertips ever. I cannot possibly want more for them. I should not. And when I hold them next to the Horley Hall children, taking their lessons on the floor of Una's classroom, their meals on the floor of her house, my little girls strike me as rich indeed beyond measure – warm, and clothed, and with their family around them.

I would put much of this towards Sunday's sermon; it sits well with Psalm 23. But I find the rest of the lectionary goes harder with it. Never mind they are hard readings for Lent – they are all of them dense. I suspect the key _is_ in the psalm; _surely goodness and mercy will follow me_ , if I am ever to make them accessible, and mean to come at them that way. I will let you know how I get on.

Love and blessings,

J.M

* * *

 _Notes here include the observation that Horley Hall, Ipoh, was - and as far as I can tell, still is - the other major branch of the Anglo-Chinese School arm. And the 1926 flooding, caused by the south-eastern monsoon season was catastrophic in a way that eclipsed all previous understanding of the October rains. Photos taken at its height are particularly striking._


	12. Chapter 12

_With thanks to all of you reading and/or reviewing. I continue to be mildly stunned at the number of people interested in this epistolatory exercise._

* * *

Mount Holly,  
Bolingbroke,  
April, 1927

John,

A strange Easter this year. We were called away unexpectedly to spend it at Mount Holly, where Phil's aunt Hetta, the last of her Gordons, has died. I am torn between the aptness of it, a death at this season of resurrection and anticipation of the New Heaven, and the pall of it. Being more of the Easter than Christmas persuasion, I tend towards the former, but it is a difficult thing to explain to Ruthie especially, who was closest to her, and I fear I do not try. You would have an eloquent turn of phrase that would make it all plain; I have contented myself in arranging the service, passing along casseroles and tending to such earthly things as my children can readily grasp.

It is difficult to explain to the grandchildren, who saw Hetta as something of an auxiliary grandmother. 'Grand' you know, was easier to say than 'Great-Great-Aunt', which she anyway did not like for making her sound ancient. (She was, really; a small, bird-like woman of antiquated and rarefied taste, the like of which will not be seen again, I fancy.) The very little ones, Ruthie's Mattie and Sam's Emma, are too young to fully grasp the occasion, though the others do, and Phil and I have had a time between us settling so many tears and tending to our own grief.

In their different ways, they all feel the loss, and Phil calls it a strange thing, for she was never terribly close to her aunt, nor were the children much, besides Ruthie, who inherited her love for some of the old ways of doing things. There is nothing of strangeness in that to me; Phil's heart has always cast it's net wide. It's what drew me to her in the first place, the breadth of that love, the colour of it. How well one knew a person, or how often together with family, is hardly the point. Deaths, however they come, are grievous things, because they remind us how fleeting are the joys and blessings of this world. To hold onto them is no more tenable than to bottle the moon, though we might well try betimes. The best we could do was to cherish those things up in the heart, as Mary is said to have done of her son's childhood – though I trust Luke in his writing meant this of the life of Christ and not only the beginning. I said all this after we had soothed the babies to sleep, their parents away in care of one another. There was only the rocking of little Emma's cradle, the twitching of a vine against the window and the tang of the sea, all salt and sulphur, creeping under the sash to disturb us.

In mundane news, the house does, as I suspected, fall to Ruthie and Mark, who will do well by it. The others do not seem to grudge them this; they have their own homes, and it was Ruthie and Mark that had care of Hetta at the end. They arranged the companions, the gardeners and whatever else it is that keeps a house of this proportion in order. In the evenings I think they read aloud to her, and played at Whist when they could make up a four, Rummy when they could not. The Presbyterian in me should disavow the cards, but I find I can only be grateful that these last years were good by Hetta. She had more of them than I anticipated, and found them often taxing, I know.

Gil and Anne will be up for the funeral; I have had a letter from Anne promising it. She writes still with that black-bordered paper, and never did it feel more apt. I think I knew what she would say almost before I read it.

Enough of this; a happy Easter to you and yours. I fear I got neither to Sunrise services this year nor Bible study. Between the decline of Phil's Hetta and waterproofing assorted boats in preparation for the coming lobster season, I have been much neglectful of secretariat business. This being our new year, I shall resolve to do better in it, and trust you are holding the Ministry end of our calling in good trust.

Be well, do good work, and keep in touch.

Jo

* * *

Mount Holly,  
Bolingbroke,  
April, 1927

Gil,

Thank you for coming to us. Phil is writing to Anne to tell her the same, but pass on my gratitude to her too. We would never have asked it, and it meant much to have you both there – for Phil if nothing else. Naomi too; she has become of late as much your child as she was ever ours. (Which reminds me; I owe Fred Arnold a similar letter and must not forget. His appearance was unexpected but welcome. I do indeed, as I once prophesied to John, like him immensely.) No doubt Leslie Ford would have welcomed you with open arms had you accepted that invitation to Toronto – and I know from Anne's letter to Phil it was extended. I am acutely aware that you could have had an amicable – if madcap – Easter at Larkrise with the others. Reports are that Teddy does a commendable lamb. I never expected you to give it up in the name of an obscure connection of Phil's.

That has made us both all the more sensible to the gesture. You may recall you were a great favourite with aunt Hetta; she would be delighted at the thought of your being there. Phil certainly was. Few people can so readily provoke her to laughter, and it was good to see that in her afterwards – whatever Hetta would have felt on the subject.

As you probably guessed, much of that service was prearranged. There was very little left to me in the way of constructing it; I had not even the luxury of choosing my prayers, but was confined to selections from an old obscurity called _My Prayer Book_.

We are still a little while at Mount Holly, Ruthie wanting us near. Phil pins this on the impending baby, who at this rate is almost certain to inherit some permutation of her ancestor's name. I am not sure what will combine with _Henrietta_ in the event of a sister for Mattie, but at this point can no longer be surprised. In any event, I think this has more to do with Ruthie wanting to keep a sort of track of _us_ than anything else. Often enough a telephone call leaves me feeling she is waiting for me to be crushed by a boat slipping its mooring or a loose shingle, or something as I minister to assorted parishes. Another time I would be glib and tell her Faith would not let such a thing happen; not today.

I know to a certainty you went back by way of Kingsport. Write and pass on what news you have, won't you? We want cheering.

Be well, do good work, and keep in touch.

Jo

* * *

Ingleside, Glen St Mary, May, 1927

Jo,

Of course we came. For you, for Phil, for the golden-birch of a girl that took the call from you in our telephone nook. For Hetta too; she had a grand sense of humour under all that form and ceremony when it came to the point. It was _getting_ at it that was like cracking a coconut. We wouldn't have missed it for worlds. If she's still with you, tell Ellie from us she sang like a lark; I can still here her _Nearer My God_ , chorus rising like a sun, and ebbing like one too. I tried to catch her at the service, but between Sam and the girls and a mesh of well-wishers her hands looked pretty well full and I forbore to comment.

Besides, both Leslie and Owen are more than able to negotiate rough water unassisted. As Anne reports that telephone conversation, Leslie _ordered_ us to you – as if she had to.

But you wanted our news. We came back, as you've no doubt heard, by way of Larkrise, where, unless I'm seriously mistaken, the numbers are due to increase in time for Christmas. I don't _think_ I'm wrong; years of practice, you know. Besides, I guessed right when Christopher was still an unarticulated thought. Faith, more than the others, has a way of looking a thing that gives her away. At least this time no one was demanding she operate on infantine hearts while trying to make sense of the news.

While there I met the famous Dr. Christopherson. He'd been passing through Kingsport for some spring conference or other, and was spending Easter at Larkrise in consequence. I like him very much. We got talking over a round of cribbage and he mentioned he'd kept a letter ready-drafted on his desk addressed to the Redmond Medical Faculty in the event they ever got awkward about Faith's attendance. I had to grin and admit I'd done the same, always waiting for the phone call that might tell me it was necessary. He grinned back and said he didn't really know what good he'd have done, a former graduate of Ottawa with a practice in rural Ontario, but he'd figured it was worth a try. We agreed it was as well it had never been necessary and went on with the play. Then he asked about the little girls; was Miri still trying to climb her way into the clouds and Jerry still having nervous fits about it?

No one had told me about Jerry and his nerves – or not in this particular scenario – but I didn't let on. I said something about all parents being a bit that way over their children, even as I wondered if John knew. I suppose he must. Anyway, I _could_ and did tell him that little Miri has moved on to tackling swimming, where the river is deep enough. Anne, who never learned, lives in perpetual anxiety she will be swept away by the current and now I wonder if Jerry shares the concern. Nan seems fairly placid about her whirlwind girls. I can't decide if this is the fault of her _Harrington,_ whose scrapes put the girls' to shame, or just her own intrepid childhood talking. Probably both.

Fox Corner, you will be unsurprised to hear, made quite the thing of Easter and its people are running on an abnormal amount of sleep. Mara, anyway. Some of that owes to Iain, of course, over a year old now and beginning to develop teeth. But there was equally much talk of late-night vigils and a thing called a Triduum that I do not understand, though John could probably enlighten me. I'm afraid to ask, lest Susan suspect I've been converted. Shirley stuck close to Martyrs' and says the chap that's got your place made a hash both of the Lent appeal, the sermons, and clearing the debris off the church roof. If it is done by the time you return, it is because Shirley has made good on the threat to see to it himself. He is also inquiring as to whatever became of the highly specialized pieces needed to regenerate the Martyrs' radiator. He reckons by now they've probably been eaten by gremlins in the post, but says it's worth investigating. If they do arrive on your doorstep in time for a Pentecost miracle, haste you to have them fitted before they can try an Ascension trick and disappear into the clouds.

Love ever,

Gil

* * *

New Manse,  
Glen St Mary,  
May, 1927,

Jo,

We did, as you supposed, pass a quiet Easter. Not a patch on yours though; certainly I thought of you as I watched the sun rise over the Harbour Light. The waves were breaking with a fury against the breakwall, and all but swallowed the sound of Ned Burr's ragtag musicians.

It being only the three of us at the Manse this year, we joined with Cornelia and the Douglas family, which was agreeable in its way, though not the same. Mary had conjured a roast to be proud of, a lamb quite swimming in mint garnish. Rosemary brought a sweet by way of contribution, and Bruce and Miller Douglas lost a quiet afternoon very agreeably, to judge from appearances, to a round of Othello. Di has been coaching Bruce in the rules and he has got to be remarkably good at it.

Speaking of Bruce, he has finally heard back from Redmond's financial people about a scholarship for September. They have awarded him one that will solidly cover his first two years' attendance on the provision he board in hall. I do not think he is much thrilled with this caveat, but neither is he inclined to look a gift horse in the mouth, so look for him at what Gil affectionately calls St Rule's, and Anne more placidly St Regulus Hall. Neither of them can give a very intelligible report of what it is like as a place, having never had cause to occupy it, but the attendant brochure had pictures that did not make it look so very awful. He sends apologies for not being able to stay over with you, but promises solemnly to appear at Patterson St with regularity. It does not say he has to _dine_ there, so I expect he may still divide dinners between you, Larkrise and Fox Corner, or so he theorizes. Recalling my own university days, I rather fancy that will all fall by the wayside as soon as he has established his people – what Cornelia would call the Race that knows Joseph.

Elsewhere, Una has sent word to say the Horley Hall children are laying in preparations to return to Ipoh, or at least, to their various homes for the summer – the ones that have them – with the intention of starting again at Horley Hall in September.

She also says she has finally met Li. She came up to the house late the other evening with Carl, animatedly discussing the finer points of the life cycle of the guava tree. Or so Una surmises. She adds she could tell she and Li would get on when she registered immediate shock at the presence of Puck, who in the name of variety, alternated that evening in throwing peanuts at her and at Una. The children were much amused, though obviously somewhat ruffled at the intrusion into their routine. In the end, Una charged Carl with care of the children and took Li onto the veranda for tea, where there were only the fireflies, her Gladstone blue ribbon, and no primates aspiring towards the championship in human ninepins.

After the first silence, they got on well enough. Una poured tea, and Li, seeing she had caught the Singaporean habit of pouring between cups, relaxed. She even offered up an observation on the fireflies, which spared Una having to wax lyrical about the dryness of the season overlong. I gather it has been a very warm spring there, in the aftermath of the flood, and they are all very much hoping the coming monsoon season will be a gentle one.

Talk was slow work, as they shifted between languages in the way the local junkets slip locks; slowly and with deliberation. Una says even now she finds herself infilling English words where she looses the Chinese, and Li does the same. But the evening was unhurried, the moon a splendid, fiery ball, and the atmosphere relaxed. By the time the children had settled for the night and Carl rejoined them, they had got on to family histories and were shifting to recipe territory. Una's shortbread and Li's enhancement of papaya. Not long after, Carl said something about taxi dances, and Una about the children and their triune knot dissolved. Una went back to the children, and they on to the city, she presumes for an evening out. From this I conclude that familial objection notwithstanding, the friendship with Li has escalated by inches. I have often wondered if it would, ever since Rosemary pointed out that that promise to Ellen never did much in the way of keeping us in our separate spheres.

If I'm right, the Glen will be well in gossip for easily the next twenty years. I do not much care; Carl and Una both sound the happiest I have known them and I find I cannot very well ask for more.

Love, blessings and prayers to you and yours,

J.M.

P.S. Whatever became of the adoption of Kilrenny and New Waterford? I've been meaning to ask.

* * *

Martyrs' Manse,  
Kingsport,  
June, 1927

John,

The official word is that New Waterford and Kilrenny will now be absorbed into the Yarmouth Parish, for reasons that defy all logic. I long ago gave up understanding the whims of the General Assembly for the sake of my sanity on Phil's advice. It was good advice. I recommend it. Anyway, I am more than a little relieved about it. I do not see how Kilrenny is remotely near Yarmouth, but neither do I see how it is near to Kingsport, either. Whoever is doing the geography of assorted parishes has an interesting brain indeed.

Seriously, from what I understand, they have succeeded at calling one minster apiece to each church, which is a healthier plan than was originally proposed, both of whom are strong, mission-minded people. This, as you'll appreciate, begs the question of why either village is being absorbed by _anywhere_ -Elie only fell to me after a five year interregnum. But no matter. I look forward to working with Revs McCallum and Williams. I have already had a very pleasant letter from McCallum over a wish to collaborate on some of our outreach with the ACS.

On which note, I am glad to hear that in the absence of the Food Ministry you have successfully launched and sustained clothing drive. Naomi supposes all the attention given that flood and Horley Hall was integral to it; whatever the cause, I imagine the recipients will be grateful. In any event, we will shortly find out. You know, of course, that she and Fred are going over after the wedding. A temporary thing, I am assured, mostly an excuse to catch up with your daughter again. But since I cannot remember the last time Naomi did a thing by halves, I take generous leave to doubt this proclamation. The ACS will almost certainly absorb her in due course, see if it doesn't.

May you continue, as ever, to be well, do good work, and keep in touch.

Jo


	13. Chapter 13

_I know, I'm still woefully behind on quite a few of your projects here. I'm reading them, I promise. But it's been ages and I felt I probably owed you an update. With thanks ever to all of you reading and/or reviewing, and for generally being patient with me._

* * *

New Manse,  
Glen St Mary,  
Sept., 1927

Jo,

The house has gone very quiet. We have just sent Bruce off on the train to Kingsport. He went this morning, on the ten o'clock train, positively ebullient with ambition, in a way that is surely more his mother than myself. She has ever been the one with an active interest the things she pursues, where I more nearly stumble into them. I seem to recall I was in the middle of a Divinity degree before I realised I had skewered my courses that way. I don't regret it; you know better than anyone my love of an excuse to poke about in my books. But they could just as easily have been books on birding and I would never have realised.

The same cannot be said of Bruce at all, who talked all the way to the station about his plans for the coming term, so much so that Rosemary's parting advice was to stop between-times and catch his breath. I do not altogether think he took it in, so perhaps we are a little alike after all.

Anyway, it has left the house entirely too big, and I do not like it at all. You, no doubt, are well familiar with the feeling, having so lately let Naomi go. It was a lovely wedding – in the event I failed to mention it at the time, or afterwards over the shooting excursion. I don't _believe_ I did, but that is no very good measure, and besides, it bears repeating. I suppose you have had her letter from Trinity House by now? We have had Una's, and not being this time under a flood, she's delighted at being able to work alongside her friend again. It's strange, I so often think of Ruthie in connection with Una, all those talks over tea, I suppose. I tend to forget she and Naomi must have worked their share of hours together between your Food Ministry and parochial visits.

If Evelyn St has gained your daughter, the Glen is markedly different without her. A Miss Millicent Drew has taken over the school, and you would not believe the sudden rash of children who have fallen ill in consequence. Nothing serious; in fact, nothing legitimate. Gil says all any of them are suffering is a healthy dose of boredom in the absence of lessons on obscure liturgical practice and the geography of the Pacific. We are host to a hoard of easily worried mothers though, and they are all of them taken in, or have been at least once each. Mary Douglas is the exception, and no surprise there. She'd send her children to school with varicella, given the chance, and that's a whole other source of irritation to Ingleside, as you'll appreciate.

I ought really to leave off here. The house is still too big, and far too quiet, and Rosemary has attempted to stem the worst of it with _Sheep May Safely Graze_. I owe it to her to at least try and stem some of that difference. Bach is lovely, of course, but not nearly the same thing, and she knows this as well as I do. And for all it evokes some of those evenings I spent listening to her play in the old West House, it doesn't stop my missing Bruce's insights on the railways and inquiries about books in my office. He was in the middle of _The Golden Key_ when he left, and his bookmark – proclaiming him first at some Sunday School function or other _years_ ago – lingers between the pages. I will add it to the parcel of things we intend to send on to him.

Love and blessings,

J.M.

P.S. Do pass on our congratulations to Ruthie. I _know_ I neglected to mention it back in August. Little Hetta makes for a magnificent baby.

* * *

Martyrs' Manse,  
Kingsport,  
Dec. 1927

Gil,

Another golden girl for you and John to add to the constellation. We met her this evening, coming back with Jem and the children after the Christmas service. A honeyed, caramel-eyed confusion of limbs, vociferous in the broadcasting of her opinions. The baby blanket Una had been working for her evidently arrived in time for her (albeit just) because she was bundled up in it when we met her. And while I know precious little about knitting, I have reached a stage in our collaboration where I would know Una's shell stitch anywhere, even were it buried in a heap of twelve dozen other shell stitch blankets at the Martyrs' jumble sale.

Miss Sophy did not take to Phil _at all_ , which occasioned much laughter, not least from Phil, especially as she seemed mild enough with _me._ Phil says this is exactly as things were with Ruthie and Naomi too, although I do not remember this being the case. All that said, she does seem an agreeable baby; your Kingsport Contingent and the Carlisles passed her between them as one does the parcel of _pass the parcel_ without so much as a murmur. Any reluctance to bless Phil with a smile will be twofold; in the first instance, she never has got over seeing babies as fragile, breakable things, and holding them accordingly. In the second, she always feels cold twice as keenly as anyone else, and is trebly long recovering from it, so was, I suspect, still several degrees of preternaturally chilled at the time the fealty to Miss Sophy commenced.

You will gather from this that your blizzard has hit us with a vengeance. You might have seen to it Gil, that you _contained_ it. It started about a week back, with what we thought was the usual fat, Christmas snowflakes, and grew worse from there. Winds started up, and flurries became whirlwinds. Roads were unsafe for walking, much less driving. You couldn't see your hand in front of your nose, and trying to availed nothing but crossed, teary eyes and icy hands. And in the midst of all this – because her brother had arrived on a heatwave and her sister on a sunburst, one supposes – one Sophy Amelia Blythe thought it optimum time to put in an appearance.

You can imagine the chaos this caused. Obviously you weren't there, being yourself feet deep in snow and cut off from even Douglas Dry Goods. As told to me later by six people at once, the one bit of foresight on your granddaughter's part was that she chose an occasion when two or three were gathered together; the Fox Corner set and the Carlisles having been stranded at Larkrise in the days prior to her birth. This meant that finding the 'phone down, and notwithstanding the storm, Geordie Carlisle went running for Mac (that's the old station house surgeon from before Jem), while Jem undertook to oversee the delivery, Mara and Judith hovering should he need a second or third set of hands. Teddy being stranded at the station house, Kitty took over ministering to the children. As she couldn't reasonably take them _out_ they holed up in what purports to be Jem's study and played dominos. (You should have heard the emphasis your grandson gave _dominos_. It is obvious that he and Helen consider it as pointless an exercise as Kitty does.)

In fact, nothing did go wrong, and the way Judith tells it, the ordeal was over almost before it started (Faith is disinclined to agree with her, even if 4 hours is as nothing where children are concerned). This meant that Mac, arriving late with Geordie Carlisle, was quite put-out at being surplus to requirements, especially given the blizzard that the Arctic forgot.

Of course, by the time we were hearing about it, the blizzard part had died down, leaving only snowdrifts up to my middle and a bitter cold that stung whatever skin one was foolhardy enough to leave exposed. We came very near not having a church service at all, even after I had shovelled the walk to the entryway. You'll recall Martyrs' sits on a hill and can be a trial to navigate at the best of times. Still, I was determined that we should be available to whatever faithful had need of us, and once Phil had moved one of those portable stoves from the manse and coaxed it into burning at the church, the effect was almost cosy.

I certainly did _not_ expect Jem and family, but had forgotten Helen was rostered on as an Angel in this year's pageant, and I gather absolutely would not be denied. So Jem and Shirley set out a good two hours early, with a child apiece on their shoulders, and trusting care of Faith and the baby to Teddy, Kitty, Mara and wee Iain, all of whom seemed agreed that hypothermia in the name of Communion was an ask too far. (The Carlisles, no doubt, felt similarly, but the Carlisles belong to St Margaret's, so I wouldn't really know.)

Our children being themselves stranded at their own homes, Phil and I had no objection, were happy enough to make the trip back with yours. Once Helen had let slip – very carefully and deliberately in the way of delighted older sisters the world over – about the baby, it was a forgone conclusion that we should. Christmas, after all, is a familial affair, and they are as much ours, I have come to feel, as are any of our children. At the very least they are the nieces and nephews we would not otherwise have had.

So we went to Larkrise, and as that poem newly in circulation has it, _a hard coming we had of it_ , what with snow pooling in our boots and frost stinging our cheeks, and the ice trying to seal our eyes. It was worth it to step into the warm of that house with its Morris wallpaper and Tuesday's vociferous welcome. I swear that dog has springs for feet, Gil; he kept leaping up to a height easily three times his body length as he took stock of the people invading his home. Then we were in the thrush-clad sitting room, Mara was pressing teacups into our hands (have you noticed, Gil, she and Judith are the only people at Larkrise to use the tea service over mugs?) and Judith handing us plates of mince pies, fresh and hot from the oven. I do not often say such things, but after the walk we had had, it smelled and tasted of heaven, and was worth scorching my fingers to eat.

We did not stay the evening, though Jem pressed for it, as I had to take the morning service. But we came 'round to them afterwards, and were treated to Mara's goose – quite as golden and rich as could be hoped for, more of Judith's baking, honeyed and flaky as ever, bacon-and-brussel-sprouts, the crispiness and spice of pigs-in-blankets, honey-glazed carrots and a nut roast that smelled enticingly of coriander, sage and thyme. Teddy had made up a gravy from the goose fat that was aromatic enough to flavour the house, and sent Tuesday writhing in canine ecstasies at our feet, his deep-barrelled chest exposed and feet kicking joyously. The children were half-drunk with sleep-deprivation and gifts, all of which conspired to create a happy Christmas after all. I hope and pray yours was the same. Not to say we don't still miss _our_ children, scattered perforce this year, only to say that yours staunch the gap rather nicely.

A Happy New Year to you and yours Gil, as it will almost certainly be that by time you're in receipt of this letter. As ever, may you be well, do good work, and keep in touch.

Jo

P. S. You'll never guess; the replacement pieces for the radiator have arrived. It only took – how long? You can imagine how Simon Hazelhurst, Martin Gibson and myself will be spending the week before the New Year. We've almost forgotten what a warm church is like.

P.P.S What is the origin-story of Sophy's name? The familial joke from this quarter – about the children being fluent in four languages; English, Gaelic, Yiddish and Shorthand – says nothing about Greek, and yet there seems to be an awful lot of it doing the rounds of Larkrise.

* * *

Ingleside,  
Glen St. Mary,  
Jan. 1928

Jo,

I was going to write and ask where the children were getting their Yiddish, but that was before I recalled Judith's household idiom in talking with the little Carlisles and discovered myself something of a prize idiot. Somehow, I had never quite put the pieces together before now, in spite of having been so generously hosted by her and the Inspector in the days before Fox Corner was in our connection. Needless to say, John and Anne thought it a rather good joke on me, having both previously made the leap. In my defence, neither has Susan, and no one appears in a hurry to enlighten her. She's only now begun to acknowledge that Catholicism might be a shade of Christianity after all, if only so that she can tell Cornelia that little Iain does indeed attend church. As she glosses right over the fact that he and his mother call it _Mass,_ I'm not exactly sure what she'd make of Judith's mixed theology.

All that to say, I fear I am no help with Sophy's name. My best guess is that name-dictionary from years ago. It's that or someone has got hold of John's Greek lexicon – though I should have said if anyone were likely to look _there_ for names it would be _your_ daughter. Not, so far as I can gather, that she has any need of a name dictionary at present. She and Una joined forces on this year's Christmas parcel, something they appear to have relished doing ahead of the young Arnolds' departure for Horley Hall and Ipoh. I suppose it has been a long while since Carl and Una had people to pass Christmas with besides the Evelyn St neighbours.

Your letter arrived in conjunction with a snapshot of mother and baby, courtesy of Kitty. Being Kitty, however, the accompanying letter was shorthand – she was obviously in a hurry writing it – and as we are not nearly so talented as Christopher and Helen in deciphering it your account was much-needed. Di never learned it, being but a photographer at _The Chronicle,_ and I, therefore, safely conclude that without your retelling, Anne should have gone quite mad trying to divine details from that photo'. (We both should have. I shall never forgive myself not being there, even if it _was_ only 4 hours, and even if I concur with Judith about that being nothing, timewise, for a delivery.)

We kept Christmas, as you will probably have heard, with the Merediths, both our houses much diminished in numbers this year for all the reasons you cite. Also with the Toronto Fords , who fought their way through the weather, Toronto having been hit only very mildly this winter with snow, nor was our snowfall quite so severe as you describe. (It came only to my knees, and that was enough). That combined with the absence of a hill from our little church's foundation meant there was never a question of calling the service off. Indeed the worst of it was watching Ken and Rilla at such odds while affecting not to be, coupled with the watchful eye Jims kept on them, as if expecting one or the other to vanish into the snow.

Needless to say, we were very glad of having Di and Alastair both at Ingleside. I find having them near keeps me young, and while the alternative is enticing in its allusion to that first Four Winds Christmas with Anne, I find I cannot go backwards in time. I have grown used to jubilant chaos at holidays and would not swap it for anything.

To this end John and Rosemary came back with us after the evening service. We lit an Applewood fire and inhaled the sweet, smokiness of it over restorative cups of chocolate, made to the old West recipe, which is more chocolate than cream – not milk – and only a _dash_ of that. This we did notwithstanding Susan's concern for decadence. Anne just pressed her hand and said that if ever we could be decadent it was in the name of welcoming the Saviour into the world. Susan looked dubious, being more staunchly Presbyterian, I sometimes think, even than Calvin, but did not argue. Anyway, she _couldn't_ argue, once I had, in my doctoral capacity, declared it vital to the restoration of adequate blood circulation in everyone.

It was rich and warm, rather as drinking an embrace might feel. We nursed our mugs – mother's beloved Royal Albert Yuletide Poinsettia – and traded news of the children. Di had had a normal, non-shorthand letter from Faith, and Alastair one from his sister. The Merediths were still waiting the usual Christmas parcel from Singapore, and Jerry's Christmas card likewise, but a letter from Una dated to November had got through, full of what has since become so much gossip and Glen Speculation.

We were augmented later by Cornelia, who called in after a Christmas spent at the Douglas house. Increasingly, you know, Mary and I are trying to persuade her to leave Four Winds for the Glen, but she absolutely refuses. That big green house of hers _cannot_ be practical to keep running, but she ignores that too, and says that if she can't do her job as intended she had better die and have done with it. Never let anyone accuse Cornelia of mincing her words. Naturally we did not talk of this Christmas Day, rather she joined us in reminiscing and news sharing. (This is, of course, why Carl's latest escapade is now doing rounds of the village at speed to embarrass a forest fire.) Mary is expecting what I make her fourth baby and Cornelia pleased as anything about it, though trying not to be lest it be taken as prideful.

I have said already about Ken and Rilla. Other, gladder news runs that Nan and Jerry are off to the wilds of Labrador, about which I have deep qualms, as it manages to be still more removed than anywhere they have yet gone. That Nan continues in her assertion that she can write _Harrington_ anywhere only moderately reassures me. No one contests the popularity of her latest book; the papers are awash in raving reviews of it. Her father, however, is discomfited by the idea of the lot of them being miles and miles from a serviceable doctor. I don't suppose Labrador will have a Dr Christopherson to keep me abreast of their skinned knees and nervousnesses. I do not like it at all.

All this notwithstanding, we made a jolly set. You would never have guessed from appearances that Cornelia had been spearheading the opposition to the planning application for those holiday houses Alastair has been involved in designing. She had brought an offering of mince pies from Douglas Dry Goods that Susan at first declined to honour with a place on the tea tray but that proved on preparation (Rosemary's) to be more than edible creations.

Ellen and Norman Douglas joined us thereafter , and he wrangled theology with John while she wrestled politics with Cornelia, and Anne, Rosemary and I talked over our children's affairs and tried to order them. No luck, of course, which is exactly as one would expect it. Anne regaled us with a story of Nan's latest adventure in the name of research for _Harrington,_ and Susan ventured an opinion that wee Iain was liable to become spoiled, having no one to divert attention from him at Fox Corner. Somehow none of us laughed, though it took effort. It remains my private theory that Fox Corner will never be ambushed by children as we were. As it was, Di diverted her with talk about trying to salvage our paper from _The Lowbridge Herald_ and reinstating it as a local institution. This had the unlikely effect of uniting Norman, Cornelia and Susan in their resounding approval, which I make a Christmas Miracle.

Since then, I have had two births, one death (expected), and more 'flu cases than I know what to do with. It is times like this I find I miss Jem most. To have had him here alongside me would be an enormous help. He'd come, I think, if I demanded it of him, and yet he'd be missed from his home. And he would miss it himself, much too much so to ever be happy. I cannot ask that. To which end, I am off to run like a lunatic around the Glen delivering tonics and prescriptions, maybe soothing the odd throat. Oh for the day Redfern invents something more medicine than sugar-pill! He's popular enough, goodness knows – it's just that nine times in ten the stuff he comes up with is pure fantasy. It isn't so bad; Bruce Meredith has promised to help a little come summer, and that should leven the load enough to be getting on with.

Take care Jo, you and Phil both. You're bound to have your share of deadwood to cut back and roofs to mend come the new year; forgive me if I take your daughter's side and suggest it need not be all on your shoulders. You might have neglected to mention your brush with influenza last letter, but Phil and Faith between them have made up the difference and I now feel I weathered that ordeal along with them. Suffice it to say I am grateful to your General Assembly for handing off Kilrenny and New Waterford to other people. Go gently, won't you? And thank you for the care you have had of my children so lately. Believe me when I say it is felt heart-deep here.

Love ever,

Gil

* * *

New Manse,  
Glen St. Mary,  
Jan. 1928

Jo,

The Glen is indeed humming with gossip courtesy of Cornelia and the most recent, but one, letter from Singapore. (The latest was the Arnold-Meredith Christmas parcel, finally getting through the backlog.) Not that it wasn't humming before; Cornelia's committee in opposition to the Harbour Holiday House project saw to it that the Glen was fairly buzzing with opinions, but all that is forgot now. It quite pales next to our news from abroad. As you'll appreciate, if explaining the mixed theology of the Carlisle house defies Glen understanding, then accounting for Carl's engagement to a young woman from Chinatown, Singapore, is absolutely beyond us.

I suspect from the report Una appended to the letter it rather defies explanation _there_ also, but cannot be sure. She and Li know each other only slightly, as much ACS and mission work on Una's part, I believe, as an aversion to the Botanic Gardens, erstwhile home of Puck.

Naturally, the usual line about the people concerned having grown rather attached to one another avails exactly nothing. Cousin Sophia is horrified, Cornelia stunned, Susan incredulous and the former Junior Reds run a mixed gamut, from anxious little Amy McAllister who used to be keen on Carl, and quite his second shadow, to a shocked Jenn Vickers, and a placid Betty. She, by the by, had the grace to pass on congratulations, and Susan theorizes it is all because one of her brothers came out of the war fired up for the mission cause and now has a church in Japan. Or words to that effect. I really don't know. Miranda Milgrave was surprised, but cordial. I leave you to imagine the reactions from the likes of Irene Howard and Ethel Reese.

For my part, it is enough to hear them so thoroughly happy. I worried once – in the pre-Raffles days – that Carl would never feel quite at home in Singapore. Something about city life – perhaps I took it for granted that he, like Jerry, would no longer have the stomach to survive it. I now wonder if he could ever again be at home anywhere else. He is a great favourite among his students, having something of a reputation for joining in with his senior classes in the ribbing of the new students. The latest of these saw Puck in his lecture hall, and the class roaring with laughter to see him handling the chalk and writing on the board. (Puck, I gather, is quite the writer, and his penmanship expert.) Certainly he met with more success there than in Una's kitchen, where Carl has lately attempted to teach him washing-up to no avail. It's not that Puck isn't willing, it's that Una won't let him help. I think she envisions that Gladstone Blue Ribbon falling to its doom from little, clawed hands.

What with unlikely allegiances, the domestic misadventures of Puck, the details of the ACS Christmas appeal, and your daughter's protracted visit to Trinity House, it made quite the letter, as you'll appreciate.

Here the snow is still dense as ever, what little Bruce calls 'packing snow.' Thinking of you, I set out this morning with an intention of clearing the worst of it from our main roads, assisted by Norman and Miller Douglas. I did not get terribly far, as Bruce shortly thereafter summoned me away to Abner Crawford's funeral. I had quite forgot! How you juggle so many projects at once I do not know. Still less do I know how I will get on when Bruce returns to Kingsport.

As it was, I arrived today in good time, only to find the readings selected by the Abner Crawfords had been handed to me in their familial Gaelic! Well, you can imagine how that went over. I could have about done with Shirley's Mara for interpreter, or Alastair. He, at least, has the distinction of being _here,_ though not knowing this particular Crawford family, he was not in attendance. I had seconds to decide how to proceed; it was mangle what was in front of me or trust to memory.

I went with memory, which did well enough for Isaiah (they had gone with _the spirit of the Lord God is upon me..._ ); I once sat a nightmarish Honours year Greek Sight Translation on that text, and am unlikely to forget it. Psalm 46 was harder, as I often find psalms like water. I know them by rote snatches. Is it the same with you? Never mind that just about any other language might have given me an _idea_ where I was going. Anyway, I stumbled through that, and I don't think they much minded; they just joined in with the Gaelic and never minded that I couldn't have read it if I'd wanted to.

 _John_ of course, was my dissertation subject, in bygone years, so by the time I got _there_ – to Christ as Good Shephard and all the rest – it was all right. I did wonder, a bit abstractly, why they hadn't paired that with Psalm 23, but perhaps they did not want sheep all round at the service. I have an idea the Abner Crawfords are arable farmers, not livestock.

They processed out to the tune of _Such Pity as a Father Hath_ , and wended their way in bleak procession to the graveyard, where the church warden had made the best job he could of a grave under the present circumstances. There was as much snow to move as there was earth, I shouldn't wonder, and that all hard-packed.

Since then Rosemary and I have spent a pleasant afternoon at Ingleside, where the great news is that shortly there will be a baby under its roof again. Gil will be writing to you about it himself, I shouldn't wonder, so you never heard it from me. He is terribly pleased, which is hardly surprising; as Rosemary says, Di has ever been his especial favourite of the children. There is some talk, incidentally of Naomi and Fred taking their holiday at the ACS. After all this correspondence back and forth, Naomi and Una are keen to meet in person, and this seems as reasonable an opportunity as any. Especially as it facilitates the delivery of our latest appeal to Oldham House's doorstep. Rosemary and Anne have both gently hinted they might like the time to themselves, but with no success. Naomi has a healthy mixture of Blake and Gordon stubbornness, and neither was Fred to be dissuaded. He was too young to accompany his father on his last ACS visit, and has spent so long _hearing_ about Naomi's interaction with it, that I really am not all that surprised at his acquiescing. Anyway, he shares with you a willingness to hang the moon for that girl. You can strategize techniques on how best to do this on some looming holiday. Just be sure you count Gil and I in on the project. We're rather attached to Naomi in our way, too.

Love and blessings,

J.M.


	14. Chapter 14

Martyrs' Manse,  
Kingsport,  
Feb. 1928,

John,

I have just had a letter from Naomi detailing the process of moving on to Horley Hall, and another from Una lamenting her going. An elaborate ordeal, given the paucity of train stations in Malaya and what trains there are run slow. It is quite the country mouse to Singapore's citified existence as our children report it, and Bruce, judging from appearances, is quite horrified by their reports of the railways.

All the while, both Naomi and Una continue to call the whole effort temporary; just until Horley Hall can get hold of new teachers. To say I am dubious puts it mildly. But then I reread Gil's account of Rilla and family and think that perhaps, after all, hearing about the happiness of my children is a mild burden to carry.

Of course, Naomi being away means there is no one to fight my corner on the issue of increased pew rent; our local representative has decided to foist the issue on Session and I can't fight it without appearing to take a side in politics, which, as you well know, is strictly verboten. Neither can Phil. Naomi and Sam between them used to make an excellent dodge of this rule, but alas, he is now wrangling Halifax bankers and stocks, and Naomi apparently setting up house in Ipoh, Malaya, and it is left to such busy personages as Shirley Blythe, who is anyways to mild-mannered to argue politics with our local council. Faith would do it, but between children and patients has no time, ditto Jem, though he at least argues companionably with Geordie Carlisle of an evening. Kitty is longing to get her say across, but can't because she too, has to be neutral, on account of being with the press. It's all incredibly vexing, since the whole _point_ of Martyrs' was to ease the pew tariff on the fishing population. Not that anyone remembers this now, any more than they recall Mrs Yonger, who was responsible for the commissioning of the church in the first place. If it goes through, it will hit little Elie hardest of all, so I suppose we will simply have to trust that the next time there's an election we get neither a coalition nor a tory at the helm.

So much for our no politics rule. In lighter news, Bruce has taken over the job of pianist at Martyrs', which leaves old Anne Hazelhurst to relax through the service, something that was growing ever more necessary as her eyes misgive her and her fingers grow stiff. Quite how she and Simon remain at the head of so many committees between them is anyone's guess. Not that I can talk; I find I am suddenly surrounded by well-intentioned people demanding I do less. Ruthie and Phil started it, but now Faith has joined in, and Jem, and Gil. Even _Kitty_ has taken to occasionally hinting I could leave the more active part of my vocation to other people, but she hasn't a clever idea as to _who_. Teddy isn't one of ours, and anyway, has his hands full with the station house and keeping Larkrise in some kind of order without running my parish for me. So does Jem, though he's more a proponent of chaos than otherwise. Shirley's hours are too like a doctor's – altogether too erratic – to commit completely to things like reshingling roofs, and Sam had the temerity to move away. Bruce has a degree to study for and a life to live, when Phil isn't trying to play matchmaker on his behalf. (Nothing serious; I'd warn you if anything looked like sticking.)

Though he _has_ succeeded at substantially altered the quality of our little choir as he slips in the occasional new, or at least underused piece to our selection. In this I suspect he is very much his mother's child. You can tell her that the wedding I conducted last week featured Handel instead of Bach; _Where E'er You Walk_ , it transpires, makes for a rather lovely choral motet. But I suppose you knew this. (You will be unsurprised to learn that our choir, such as it is, is in schism over the change; half are welcoming the variety, the other half shocked and offended at the thought that one can be legally married to anything besides the strains of _Jesu Joy._ )

And as I keep telling Gil, I _can't_ retire. Never mind the parish, what would I do? Books are, as ever, your territory, and also my daughter's. As the hymn has it, _the church is a people_. These are _my_ people, and I know them by their names. Also, as the same hymn has it, _we are the church together._ Together we rebuilt the dock at Waterford, and laid new foundations, stoppered up leaks and became a living, breathing church body. I can't abandon them now, just because my back aches and my knees are imperfect and it takes more time than it used to shovel snow off the Conway roof. Not when they keep going in the face of their own setbacks and disappointments. It would be like a betrayal. Besides, who would fight the question of the pew rent?

And now I'm back to politics. I'll stop while I'm ahead. I'll tell you instead that Miss Sophy at three months is already evinced of an impishness doomed to wreak havoc on Larkrise and the surrounding area. I'll add that you really ought to write to Kitty and demand a report on the story of 'Jack Pine' and how he comes to be writing for the newspaper. It's riotously funny. You can reciprocate with an account of the holiday house project status. Are they still under opposition from Cornelia?

May you ever, be well, do good work, and keep in touch.

Jo

P.S. Do you know how Di gets on as regards the resuscitation of the Glen paper? Kitty is wildly excited at the prospect and wants all manner of particulars that none of us here can give her.

* * *

Ingleside,  
Glen St Mary,  
March, 1928

Jo,

I hazard I would be less likely to tell you off for your continued tenure as minister to Martyrs', Knox and Holy Trinity, if I had not lately had Faith's report of the sprain to your wrist doing she's uncertain what exactly, coupled with Phil's exasperated letter to Anne about the impossibility of getting you to stay still through the duration of a head cold. Some day one of your imperfect roofs is going to come down from under you and I refuse to have it on my conscience (probably so does Faith) that I didn't at least _try_ and warn you to delegate to other people. I only don't lecture John on the same theme because it is very difficult to lecture an absent-minded bookworm who sermonizes on the Greek roots of the word _Presbytery_ and how it is different from the _episcopoi,_ which is also Greek, but means something quite else. Anyway, there's no danger of him falling and breaking his neck in the process of so lecturing. Though he does rather valiantly defend your corner more locally.

Besides which, Phil really does write an imperious letter. Can't she send your councillor an anonymous letter on the subject of pew rent? Anonymous or not it would probably terrify them out of interfering. Why, by the way, _are_ they interfering? I thought the whole point of separating church and state was that they couldn't? Or is this their way of reflecting the havoc they have wreaked on taxes? In which case, I advise you to blame Sam, and see if you can't get Ellie to write the Strongly Worded Letter in question. I seem to recall she hales from fishing stock, and would have definite opinions on the subject. (Mara absolutely will if Ellie doesn't; you might try Fox Corner and Rome if everywhere else fails. After all, the council will probably take for granted that she and hers have taken on Presbyterianism along with Shirley's name.)

Speaking of which, I'm glad to hear glad news of our Kingsport contingent. Leslie's latest letter informs us things continue terse at Maple St, and I have come to dread her copperplate. This last Christmas with them was _hard_ ; the last time I saw anyone look the way Rilla did, it was Leslie nerving herself to go to Montreal with Dick Moore. I can't decide if that was the worst of it, or if watching my grandchildren notice was worse still, or then again, seeing _Leslie_ see the same was worst of all. She was so obviously back in those House of Dreams Era days, and those are really only an idyll for Anne and myself. My mind generally changes by the hour. And all this because Rilla would like to try for another baby – for a girl – and Ken is terrified of the idea. He and Rilla are due at the Castle Frank Fords for Easter, and it's plain Leslie is equal parts anticipating it and exhausted by the thought. I don't much blame her; it is no easy thing to be caught in the middle of one's children. To that end, Anne and I have promised to join with them. It's only fair, after all, that we do what we can to leaven the tensions of the hour. Persis and Jims are trying, but that is no burden to place on them. Nor is it one to place on Cass, who only shares the landing and bathroom of the St George street flat with Persis, but she appears to have shouldered it anyway, and has the little boys devoted to her.

Suffice it to say that your report of little Iain's birthday was sorely needed. Susan was anxious to have him and family come to us for the occasion, but it proved quite impossible. Just as well, as it turns out, because she had a rather bad turn the other day. This would have been about three in the afternoon; she went into the kitchen to start preparations on tea, so Anne tells me – I was out tending to infantine Drews at the time – and the next anyone knew of her, she had dropped a plate, which Susan never does. Well, almost never. There might have been the odd piece of crockery sacrificed at the altar of The War back when it was on. But there _wasn't_ a war on at the time, so naturally that brought Anne and Rosemary to the kitchen, where Susan had collapsed against the kitchen counter, quite the colour of cream. Rosemary started on sweeping up the plates and Anne got me on the telephone

I was home in short order and corralling Susan into the study and making an examination of her. In the end I couldn't make up my mind definitely as to the cause, and sent for Dick Parker, who had thought he had his afternoon off.

We were a long time conferring between us. At some point Anne thought to bring in tea, a lovely, rich Assam with honey because you'll recall Dick takes it for a sweetener and not sugar like normal people. We half-registered it, the smell of the sweet and the malty black tea, but not really. When we finally recollected its existence it had gone tepid. I have a sick sort of feeling it's heart trouble, so has Dick, and when I've got nerve enough I'll telephone Shirley as promised and tell him so.

The trouble of it is that I'm not sure there's all that much I can _do,_ besides make a career of bullying Susan into retirement. So you see, if nothing else, you're in good company, as not unlike you, Susan has never heard of the idea of rest. I don't know what's wrong with the pair of you; I'd retire tomorrow and make a career of visiting my children if I could get someone to take the practice over. Instead I've promised to keep it in tact for Bruce Meredith, so continue running around like a lunatic until such time as he can claim it.

Anyway, it's all we can do to keep Susan sitting down; we gave up on bedrest hours into the and Anne are presently conspiring to run interference in the kitchen, while Rosemary Meredith, God bless her, suggested she and Susan start on a christening gown for the upcoming baby.

That's all the news at our end, except to say that Cornelia's planning objections were overruled by the council and newspapers are a fraught business. Di has joined with Betty's husband on the project but they make minimal progress. Tell Kitty from me that as and when that changes, she will be first to know. I trust your wrist is mending, whatever you did to it. I'm relying on you to not die of an injury and keep me abreast of all the things my children don't tell me. Was Tuesday really victim of a seizure? Perhaps more pertinently, did Kitty _really_ talk Teddy into writing a column for _The Chronicle_? I demand answers.

Love ever,

Gil

* * *

Martyrs' Manse,  
Kingsport,  
March, 1928

Gil,

I happened to fall on the bell tower stairs, if you want to know. My fault completely for failing to mend a loose tread there. My wrist took the brunt of it, but it was really a very mild sprain and Bruce set it right in short order. Otherwise I wouldn't be writing to you. Teddy's column makes a much better story.

You couldn't make _The Chronicle_ column up if you tried. Here's the story as I understand it. Kitty has, as you know, been goading Teddy for ages and ages about his tendency to rhapsodize over the wildlife when taking the children on excursions, never mind been on at him to write the stuff up for the paper. Well, Jem and Faith had gone with the Carlisles and the Fox Corner lot to whatever Gilbert and Sullivan thing was on at the Crown Imperial. Something about ghosts, Basingstoke and cursed aristocracy, if I remember properly. (I may not; those plots always sound the height of absurd in the retelling, cf the above list.)* This left Teddy and Kitty with the children – all 12 of them, as it happens, because notwithstanding Toby Carlisle's protests that he and his did not need supervision, Teddy and Judith had insisted. (Judith for the sake of maternal nerves, Teddy for the fun of it, one supposes.) It was quite normal procedure, but the fact that Christopher was surfacing from a fever, Helen succumbing to one, Iain teething and ear-achey, and Sophy colicky proved rather a potent cocktail. Especially since the fever in question had its origins among the Carlisles, half of which were still recovering themselves. Well, you know Kitty; she has about as much time for wee ones as clover has for the cow that eats it. So she settled to writing up an account of whatever the latest case was for _The Chronicle_ while Teddy got the children into bed. Only none of them would stay in bed, and Iain was still teething, and Sophy crying. When carrot juice and a corral availed Iain nothing, and every colic remedy Teddy knew (and the ones he cribbed from us over the Carlisle phoneline at an ungodly hour) had likewise failed, he handed a squalling Sophy to Kitty and declared it 'her turn.'

He then sat down at the kitchen table and wrote up what became the first of the 'Jack Pine' columns; rather a lovely piece on the history of snowdrops. He never meant for anyone to see it, but of course Kitty found it. She's not the investigative reporter on the police beat for nothing. In retaliation, off she sent it to her editor, who loved it and insisted she bring in 'Jack Pine' so that it could be ratified as a weekly column. And here we are. Find the snowdrops piece enclosed.

I was sorry to hear about Susan. She is now on assorted intercessions lists, between Martyrs', Sacred Heart and St Margaret's. You can assuage her by reassuring her that she is included on the lists at Knox-on-the-sea and Holy Trinity likewise when I take services there. So are your Toronto connection, albeit in a rather different, and less explicit way.

Bruce was over for supper the other evening and has asked that I pass on his apologies for remaining in Kingsport over the Easter break. Between playing for a sudden rash of weddings and involvement in one of our Lent appeals for the ACS – my fault as much as Una's – he has become quite busy. You ought probably extend the apology to John also, as he and Rosemary will now be short their youngest for the holiday. Tell them it is all my fault. I understand this leaves you with your hands full, what with Dr. Parker holidaying with Alice and family. I trust that young doctor – you called him Coulter? – will assist in the covering of Lowbridge.

And you might ask John when on earth he is taking that sabbatical. He keeps threatening it and never organizing it. If Rosemary wants a project, she could do worse than plot an expedition that would result in a chance to reconnect with our foreign correspondents.

Don't work _too_ hard, and I'll solemnly promise not to break any bones rehanging our bells in time for Eastertide, does that seem fair?

And of course, may you as ever be well, do good work, and keep in touch.

Jo

* * *

Ingleside,  
Glen St Mary,  
April, 1928

Jo,

All I can say on the subject is that Teddy's idea of fun is not mine. Twelve illness-ridden children indeed! I'm still haunted by memories of the year my _six_ caught measles off each other in the space of a week. The Merediths had the temerity to catch it off them, and I think Anne, Rosemary, John and I got maybe seven hours of sleep between us until the ordeal had passed. Even then it didn't let up because Mary Vance caught it from Una and gave it to Billy Shakespeare Drew, whence it reached the rest of the Drews, who in turn gave it to the McAllister small-fry, who passed it on to the Penny family. It was a grim few months of my life, I can tell you. Tell the lot of them from me to count themselves lucky that it was only garden-variety influenza, won't you? (In other news, when did the Carlisle number increase? I think I knew Tibby was no longer the baby, but there are now _eight_ children? Is that right?)

Anne, predictably enough, is waxing poetic over the snowdrop piece. So is Di, who wants to know why no one had hitherto let on that Teddy could turn a phrase like that. I doubted anyone _did_ know, which generated quite a bit of laughter all round. In any event, thank you for sending it on. The column in question now sits in a frame on one of the end tables, among the general bric-a-brac of our parlour, though don't tell Teddy; he'll be mortified.

Susan has recovered admirably, and this being the case, is now making up for lost time by whirling around the house like a dervish. Attempts to reason with her that she will exacerbate her condition go unheeded, except of a Friday evening when, from what I can deduce, Shirley manages to read her the riot act with much affection and in under three minutes. From this I conclude that he is wasted on his animals and has missed his calling as a doctor. Otherwise, Anne, Di, Alastair and I have all got rather good at staging interventions. Anne is particularly deft, having suddenly developed a habit of dropping stitches in the blanket she is knitting up for Di's baby. Having never before suffered this particular tribulation, not even after Walter died, Di and I have begun to suspect she does it on purpose, though Susan remains only too happy to help.

The baby, incidentally, is expected this autumn – September if I've got the dates right, and I've never been wrong before. (Nan's girls are the exception, but don't count as they were early.) It's been years since Ingleside has seen a baby – since the war and wee Jims in fact – and everyone is looking forward to it. The fact that Susan can claim to be working while rocking it to sleep is an incidental bonus. I won't even have to leave home to contrive to be there in time, which is novel.

It has, however, rather stuck in the teeth of Rilla and family. She's still after her wee girl, and Ken maintains that he has no more stomach for enduring even one more high-risk birth. I think his exact words last time we talked were 'No more children.' Babies not being an issue one can compromise on, I can find no obvious solution to the problem. Poor Jims is at the point, I suspect of not much caring, provided his people talk civilly to one another again, and I don't blame him. I hate seeing them so cold, pale and prickly, Jo. My admiration for Leslie and Owen has doubled after the revelation that they must have fielded much the same sort of trouble last Easter. And Leslie makes it look _easy_.

Things might just about work themselves out, I think, if it weren't for the ongoing reports of babies; Sophy and her contemporaries, your Ruthie's latest, our news at Ingleside. Never mind Betty's new boy and the fact that the Grant collective is due increase again as of the summer. Rilla is organizing a baby's quilt through the sewing circle, one apiece, and that with her usual vim. But as Anne calls that organization for distraction's sake, and I'm disinclined to aruge with her. It's not difficult to see how and why Rilla might feel herself surrounded by unintended jabs and stings confronted with such an edict as 'No more children.' Especially when she disagrees with the edict in question.

In cheerier news, Nan and Jerry have set course for Labrador and we expect news imminently to confirm their arrival. They will stay through the year and return by way of Quebec – Kippewa again, I shouldn't wonder. Nan is rather cherishing the idea that the girls develop more concrete memories of it than they presently have of the place. I shall be happy provided no one summons me out that way again for a complicated delivery of more twins. Anne hinted as much over the phone when this came up, and I gather Nan laughed and said only that that was more unlikely than a deeply unlikely thing. Nan-speak, naturally, and parsing it leads me to suspect that whatever charm is in effect at Fox Corner is not confined to that place. I find I am unexpectedly grateful to Mara in this.

Here, planning has started on those holiday houses, to Alastair's gratification. He was beginning to go mad with wrangling with the council, and I don't blame him. Our local council can be a very exasperating lot. They have lately taken up arms about the role women can play in its running, and I blame the Supreme Court, as well as the end of the Holiday Houses Debate.

I trust yours are happier, and your wrist adequately recovered. Bruce sent us a detailed report of the state of those bell tower stairs, and Faith another of your injury. All I can say is count yourself lucky it was only a sprain. Though I suppose Faith has beat me to the saying of it.

Love and affection,

Gil

P.S. John had quite forgotten he was considering a sabbatical. Someone on the secretariat asked for a series of four-part sermons on Stewardship to get us through Lent, or some such, and all else fell entirely by the wayside. He was quite astonished when I made mention of it, so don't expect anything like an outsider report on the ACS or anything else Singaporean for the foreseeable future.

P.P.S. Nan has been rereading _Persuasion_ between boxing possessions, and is inclined to cite it as the origin of Sophy's name. I find this deeply unlikely, but it's more of an answer on that question than anyone else has previously offered, especially Cousin Sophia, who believes herself the inspiration.

* * *

Martyrs' Manse,  
Kingsport,  
Easter, 1928

Gil,

Phil reckons we can outdo your measles story, but given the season, it would probably be uncharitable to try. When you feel up to it though, do get her to tell you the story of the Waterford Rubella. I don't think I can face a recapitulation this side of the New Jerusalem.

Speaking of which, we took a leaf out of John's book and wrangled a sunrise service here this year. There was mist for _miles_ , Gil, and the sea positively roiling. I stood out on the pier with my flock and thought we were liable to be asperged by the waves before we ever had cause to go anywhere near the church – and the smell of it, the salt, the sulphur and damp – it was like nothing I could have imagined. And then, as we were closing out the service with one last chorus of Alleluias, the sun burnt off the fog and came dazzling through the clouds, eclipsing even the haar-laden glory of what had gone before. It was still chill with lingering fog, but we came away feeling the sun through our myriad layers on the walk up to Martyrs' for Easter Breakfast, and I've never known a better Easter miracle. Jake's boys loved it, of course, but I think that was more to do with the bacon rolls their mother and grandmother served up than any particular closeness to God.

In rather more earthly news, and direct contravention of our politics rule, would I be right in supposing you are surrounded by as much indignation about the Persons declaration as I am here? The court verdict came through at the beginning of the month and ever since I have been surrounded by righteously indignant women. Not without just cause either; I know precious little of politics, I realise, but how so many people can get it wrong fairly boggles me. I trust all at your end are fighting the good fight, or at least writing Strongly Worded Letters of an advisory nature to the Supreme Court. Tell Anne I'd expect nothing less.

May you ever be well, do good work, and keep in touch.

Jo

* * *

*Jo is here recounting the plot of _Ruddigore_ in spectacularly broad strokes. Weird things happen to G&S plots when you try for brevity in the synopsis.


	15. Chapter 15

Ingleside,  
Glen St Mary,  
April, 1928

Jo,

Never before have I seen Betty Meade – forgive me, Morris – quite so righteously indignant as she was over tea the other day. Ostensibly she was only there to ease discussion between Edwin Morris and Di about the extraction of _The Glen Notes_ as was from the jaws of _The Lowbridge Herald_ but then the bulletin on women in the senate came in with the evening edition and merry riot broke loose. Susan was incensed, which meant Cornelia took the side of the Supreme Court, while Di and Betty joined with Susan. All this while Betty jostled her little boy on her knees and Anne tried not to fly into one of her spectacular tempers at the verdict. No luck there, especially not when Ellen stormed up to the house and egged her on. I had half a mind to join in, purely to give Cornelia back-up, except that I value my life too much and anyway don't agree. Besides, when have you ever known Cornelia to require a vanguard?

Later, the Morrises having departed, the Merediths joined us and Rosemary contrived to be both conciliatory and exasperated in that way she has that rather defies quantifying. Alastair and I retreated to the safety of a game of chess while they wrangled the subject, switching to cribbage when John joined us. I keep waiting for the 'phone to go and announce opinions from Kingsport, but I suppose they're all taken up with other things. Faith will know better than to tie up a doctor's line, and as Mara's time seems presently taken up by the current run of _The Queen was in the Parlour._ I can only suppose Judith is managing assorted children. All I can say, Jo, is if the women making men of our boys aren't persons then I don't see how the boys in question are either. All Jem's best lessons came from Anne, and I hope I'm gracious enough to admit it.

The disentanglement of the newspaper, by the by, is a vexed quandary. Ed Morris has been champing at the Lowbridge bit for months; neither he nor Betty cares much for town life and attendant politics, and that was _before_ court made such a hash of things. But getting our paper back from _The Herald_ is an expensive, not to say nuanced process. More than once Betty has suggested Ed and Di start from scratch with a new paper. Di says that would be intruding on the Lowbridge patch, whatever that may be, and the consequences of that are dire. Also, they have no writers between them, unless we can coax Kitty out of Kingsport, and I suspect that young lady would see that as a move in rather the wrong direction. She's begun to make noises about moving from _The Chronicle_ , but I don't imagine Kitty's future plans involve swapping a solid city daily for weekly rural edition that earned her less than previously. So there's that to consider.

Not long ago I would have considered Ken, but Leslie would have my head for taking her grandchildren from her doorstep, even if things at Maple St weren't still grim, which they are. News of little Sophy's birth was apparently the straw that broke the camel's back, and now Ken has capitulated and he and I are bracing for the declaration of the youngest – and please God last – Ford's arrival. This is supposed to help things at the house, but all it means is that Ken works longer hours than ever, Rilla is worn out from children, assorted committees, and eventually hyperemesis, while the boys spend a fair few afternoons round with their Auntie Persis. She's quite the favourite with them, and Cass too. The children call her 'Aunt' now, which she is not, and which baffles Cass's family, but not ours, since at this stage she's as much an aunt to the boys as Judith is to any of the Kingsport wee ones. You wouldn't think indexers at the university would make for entertaining company to growing boys, but Cass indexes for anthropologists and does a grand line in stories about African Tribal Practices. As I've never met her, I take Liam's word on this one. Anyway, even if none of this were the case, can you imagine _Ken_ agreeing to life in the drowsy Glen?

We need to do something though, because even I am running out of patience with the way our Glen _Herald_ swamps local news with Lowbridge doings. The Taylor silage caught fire last week and it went unreported; this in spite of the fire spreading to the farmhouse and doing terrible damage. There was an outbreak of whatever-it-is that sheep are prone to in damp pastures (Shirley can no doubt give you specifics on that one) back in September; that never broke the front page either. It didn't even get into the _Notes on the Glen_ section, which vexed Shirley excessively when I told him, as apparently whatever-it-is is highly contagious. Our Knox's 60th anniversary squeaked into the back page of something, and you should have heard Susan's tirade over _that._ She made it front-page news. No one dared point out we were lucky it was news at all.

I do sometimes wonder if Anne mightn't join in the endeavour. I think I told you she has taken to reading me some of her poetry again – this would have been in September, in and around Walter-time. And it was…I said then I hadn't words for her verses. I still haven't. I half wonder if a good stint of adjective-free prose mightn't be good for her. I'll suggest it in the event I ever work up the nerve.

Naomi, of course, would be the ideal solution. What do you reckon our chances of extracting her from Horley Hall? I'd tell you to tell her we miss her here, but I suppose you are doing that anyway.

Love ever,

Gil

* * *

Martyrs' Manse,  
Kingsport,  
October, 1928

Gil,

Well that's _that_ resolved. And here I thought Britain was starting to delegate Canadian affairs to Canada! Not that I'm complaining; her verdict that our women are indeed people, and as such liable to sit in senate if so minded, has soothed more than Phil's mathematical soul at this end. Kitty has drafted a terrifying number of columns to wider papers, and was actually nerving herself to send them when the verdict came through. Phil and I couldn't work out for the life of us what had delayed her submissions in the first place until Teddy let slip that Kitty had once said she was reluctant to leave before Sophy could remember her. This surprised me, Kitty being, in my experience, not overly fond of children. She's positively wary of my assorted grandchildren, especially impish Miss Evie, and Shirley says this is quite normal. She's on a nodding relationship only with his Iain, skittish of the young Carlisles (who are rapidly ceasing to be young in the normal usage), and not especially demonstrative of the Larkrise children.

I suppose some of this showed on my face because Teddy shrugged and said Kitty generally made exceptions for the girls; Helen, he reckoned because everyone makes exceptions for Helen, and Sophy because she is the youngest of Kitty's people, and she sets great stock by her people.

Of course, the other part is that she cannot actually write for another paper while in _The Chronicle'_ s employ. I hadn't realised this until recently, when an evening at Larkrise subjected me to a treatise on the nuances of newspaper details. I blame your daughter embarking on this mission to reclaim _Glen Notes_ , personally. Kitty can talk of nothing else. I don't complain as it made a change from the strange death of Lloyd McMillan. It sounded a deeply unfortunate business. Needless to say, Helen and Christopher were fascinated. So was Tuesday, though that may have been because the discussion was happening over an uncarved ham, something his long-nosed canine self found riveting.

But while I'm talking of papers, I did indeed remind Naomi about your idea of bringing her in on the _Glen Notes_ project. She reminded _me_ , with the best will in the world, that she is still required to teach the Cambridge Course for Horley Hall. Didn't I _tell_ you there was no extracting her?

At Fox Corner, little Iain has developed yet another ear ache. Faith and Jem have taken to batting back and forth some discussion of rubber tubes, which confuses his parents as much as it does myself, though no doubt you will be able to weigh in with an opinion. And in a misadventure you will appreciate, Jake's youngest recently took a notion to swallow a whole bottle of Redfern's Purple Pills on a bet. In the ensuing rush for a doctor, I don't suppose he got any winnings. This was back at the end of September, as school was resuming, and inspired by a Patterson St friend trying to delay his departure. It didn't half work! And the lecture little Bruce gave him – had _you_ any idea he shared Faith's particular brand of fiery indignation? A letter to Una on the subject has yielded an answer that says she did, and adds that it takes great lengths to bring it out, such as the consumption of a whole bottle of Purple Pills. Faith then gave him a second scolding, Phil a third, and as Retta actually spanked him, the lesson is pretty well learned, or so I hope. (Jem, hearing about it, responded by taking the lad in question aside and offering a series of safer household experiments, such as the exiling of castor oil to the innards of the kitchen sink. I should like to say his mother is thankful, but that would not be strictly true.)

I'll see you shortly, but am now off to one last meeting of Session before I come out to you and John. It's our year for elections and candidates are excessively reluctant to apply. Until then,

keep us posted on Di and the baby; everyone here is anxious for news.

Be well, do good work, and keep in touch.

Jo

* * *

Ingleside,  
Glen St Mary,  
October, 1928

Jo,

We are in chaos. The merry kind that babies generally bring, but I had forgotten quite what that was like. It has been – on second thought, I won't quantify the years. It will only make me feel ancient. Not since Rilla brought Jims home in that soup tureen, anyway. Incredible to believe that our war baby is now in double figures, playing football with UCC and street hockey with the Maple St lads. Gertrude Oliver's Robbie heads their communal league, no surprise to anyone, provided they can remember the boy in question is now a gangly 10 and not still red and squalling on Gertrude's knee as per the occasion of Rilla's wedding. Which I can't, all of the time.

Anyway, the lad of the hour arrived perhaps a week ago. I'd have written before, but have been preoccupied with carrying him about places and introducing him to the Glen and its people. Anne laughs at me, but I haven't had a baby in such easy reach since – but we weren't keeping a tally, were we? Besides, she is equally busy with apologising to him for his red hair. Di does likewise, notwithstanding the fact that this is not altogether their fault, the McNeilly clan having their share of it themselves.

It is worth all of it, the wailing, the gnashing of teeth, the warm weight in my arms, and even the general disarray of the house, though it vexes Susan, or she pretends it does. Nothing upends the universe in quite the way an infant can. He's called Hector, by the by, as I don't think I've yet said. Robert Hector McNeilly on paper, but Hector for everyday, as the Robert is more tribute to a departed brother of Alastair's than it is a name in its own right.

Funny how that works, isn't it? Neither Mara nor Faith will touch the names of their dead, except indirectly, as with Iain's middle name. And when Sophy was born, Faith rejected outright Jem's suggestion of 'Lilian' for a name, as I understand it. She said she couldn't bear to use it. Someone offered 'Lily' and apparently that was worse. No flower girls for Larkrise.

Nan, Di and Rilla too, have all sidestepped the issue of a small 'Walter' to much local comment – chiefly Cousin Sophia – but in the interests of preserving their sanity. 'Cecilia' too, and I can never decide if John is relieved or disappointed on that score. But Alastair wanted the memory of his brother, and Di didn't mind acquiescing, so here we are. Susan has declared it a name that will wear well in the using of it, even as she was dismayed over his ears. They look very ear-like to me, and being whole and intact, I have no objection against them myself. I never did grasp Susan's preoccupation with ears. Provided he does not share wee Iain's propensity to ear ache, I shall be satisfied. I also count ten toes, ten fingers, a regular heartbeat, healthy, even ruddy colour, and two _very_ reliable lungs. I have made note of all these things in my records, and have made a further entry into our family bible, which is beginning to get quite full of entries. If Susan rather wishes there were more under the heading Fox Corner, she is for the time being distracted.

All this has temporarily slowed the progress of what John has taken to calling the Coup on the _Lowbridge Herald_. Di being presently preoccupied with wee Hector, the affair is in Ed Morris's hands, though Betty comes by almost twice a week with baked offerings and infant clothes. I overheard her theorising to Di the other afternoon that if she unburdens herself of her boys' baby things she will ward against further disruption from that direction herself. It seemed ungentlemanly to interrupt, much less to poke holes in her logic, so I left them to it, though the smell of fresh-baked Elephant Feet (Bruce's boyhood name for those cream-and-chocolate coronet things Susan – and now Di – conjures) was excessively tempting. In any event, a report of a scalded hand out on the Shore Road decided me on the matter and I left them to it.

I came back to find a grey-looking Susan had dissected one of the Elephant Feet and was assessing it for failings, and aggreived that she could find none. Anne was suggesting this proved Susan's skill as a teacher, but not appeasing her much. To that end I swiped half the abused Elephant Foot and ate it, feeling that the Scalding Expedition had entitled me to that much. Only afterwards did I learn the greyness had been brought on by one of Susan's attacks, and not, as I supposed, at indignation over alien pastry. I can't decide if it's a good or bad thing that these spells of hers are now so run-of-the-mill that summoning me is superfluous.

I trust you and yours do better. Give my best to the children when you see them and add my vicarious scolding to the collection Jake's Andrew has already suffered. (If you're so minded, you can also pass on that baking salt into a cake will garner about as much attention and less ire.)

I recollect your saying over the fire the other week that you were all due at Mount Holly as and when thanksgiving falls due. I shall pray on your behalf that whoever inherits your church(es) for Harvest Festival does them justice.

Love ever,

Gil

P.S. I have advised Fox Corner to risk the tubes. I know Mara can survive on no sleep, and probably Shirley learned to when the war was on, but this is getting absurd. If nothing else, it cannot be comfortable for Iain.

* * *

Martyrs' Manse,  
Kingsport,  
December 1928

John,

A brief note to inquire how you ever survived these last handful of Christmases without your children at home. Nathan Arnold, having had the same letter I've had, has just rung off after telephoning to demand the same of me, and I had no answer for him. You'll have heard, I suppose, about Naomi and Fred making the trip back to Singapore for Christmas with yours? I imagine Una has written you the news; her letter to me was only sorry, in that half-apologetic way of hers, that Naomi was keeping Christmas with her and not us. I have reassured her that I take comfort in the knowledge that I am shaping up to converse as your equal on such subjects as venomous snakes and cork hats, though I doubt I shall ever learn more about primates than I do through my correspondence with your daughter. I may have glossed over the bit about feeling the absence keenly. One presumes Una took this as read.

Still, I am kept busy with our usual outreach appeal, the Food Ministry, Carol Concerts and this year, an application to the Heritage Trust to restore little Waterford's Holy Trinity. We have all patched it as best we can, but between a recent failure of the heating system, a leak in the narthex, and the warping of the choir loft, it has become clear that we are beyond my modest architectural skills. And since it is inexplicably now a Listed Building, the Heritage Trust it is.

But before I forget, Una's latest letter said something about the ACS being now, at least on paper, the property of the Methodist Mission. Is this right? I was going to ask Nathan, only then the pips announced the three minutes were out and anyway, I was due at Waterford to fix the caulking on the Andrews property. It had warped rather badly of late and was letting in large quantities of water – so naturally the finer details of Oldham House slipped my mind.

Expect another letter at least before the year is out. I am off to catch a train Bolingbroke way, and cannot afford to miss it.

May you ever be well, do good work, and keep in touch.

Jo

* * *

New Manse,  
Glen St Mary,  
January, 1929

Jo,

Forgive the lateness of the letter. I kept meaning to write you, but got rather caught up in this year's set of Christmas sermons and the year had turned before I realised. I trust you passed an agreeable, if diminished Christmas; I have an idea your lambs were coming to you for the occasion. Does Miss Evie still tumble into lit fires, or has her sister taken that mantle over now?

Here Christopher made a concerted effort to eschew the floor in favour of walking only on the furniture, while Helen regaled us with her opinions on the Persons Act, so lately resolved. She had plainly cribbed them from Faith, Kitty and her aunts (I'm counting Judith there) but they were no less voluble for that. This kept us sufficiently distracted that no one noticed her stealing tastes of every baking endeavour going, from Una's care-package Christmas Cake to Rosemary's merengue, until she had acquired all the fizz and energy of a wind-up toy. Christopher was altogether tamer, being preoccupied with a new Meccano set. Sophy and Iain would likely have assisted in the chaos, save that both came down with the same strain of whatever cold has been going the rounds – Iain's bout compounded by another earache. Happily, between Bruce, Gil, Faith, and Jem, they were both spoiled for medical attention. Faith even coaxed Gilbert away from little Hector long enough to corral him into the application of rubber tubes to Iain's ears. Mara looked mild disapproval – though she didn't try particularly hard to argue the point with them. Bruce was fascinated; I am confused.

I believe Carl's phrase, talking of our daughters, was that they got along 'like a house on fire.' This is one of those phrases that rather perplexes me, as I can see nothing good about house fires, having ministered to too many victims of them, and yet the symbolism is so obviously supposed to be read as positive. Mind you, this comes from the man who still regularly wrangles with the Parable of the Unjust Steward with limited success at Stewardship season, so perhaps this is no surprise.

The same would appear to be true of Una and Li; her letters are now quite as full of her and her recipes as Carl's are of her botanical insights. It strikes me Li is settling in to be a fixture of their lives and mine, and to that end I really ought to go through with that sabbatical I keep planning and forgetting about. I should like to meet the woman my son has married.

About which; Nathan Arnold is not wrong about the ACS falling to the preserve of the Methodist Mission, for which reason you will never let on to Miss Cornelia that strictly speaking, my little boy was married in the Methodist church. I'm not sure I'm all that bothered; he left Orthodoxy somewhere in the botanical gardens of Singapore, and that to gratifying effect obviously. But you know Cornelia; she's indignant as it is that Carl is marrying a woman from Away. We'll never hear the end of it if she discovers that Rev. Peach took the service in the ACS chapel. She wastes no opportunity to remind me that I'm supposed to mind about Carl being converted by one of the heathens – her words, not mine. Frankly, I can't find the energy. Li is sacred to Carl, friend to Una and devotee of Nenni the cat. That is enough. (Puck and Akela no doubt disagree, being on the receiving end now of her impatience as well as Una's, but I digress.)

Speaking of Una, she has sent a glowing letter of the service, which I understand was very private, what with Li's family not deigning involvement and our being away. We'd have come if summoned, but as no one _did_ summon us…Una says Carl rather relished the surprise, and that seems so like the boy I sent to war that I can't complain. Besides, her letter includes photographs, and no amount of imperfection could fail to catch the obvious happiness of the couple. Li wears a smile the way ordinary people wear baubles; it lights her up like a sun. And she will not hear of Una going from Trinity House. Carl might have _bought_ the place with his Raffles salary, but it was Una that made a home of it – Li's words by way of Carl's letter. And without her family to turn to, she has quite adopted Una for family. Apparently she was brought up believing it was quite the unforgivable sin to turn one's back on family. So Una stays at Trinity House, because it is near Barker Road's ACS, because Carl loves her and because Li has declared her family. They are still negotiating the fine details – who plays mother at the teapot, and all that sort of thing – but seem, for the present to rub along smoothly.

As to how we weather the holiday, I have no very good answer. The Christmas parcels help temper the worst of it; it wouldn't be properly Christmas to me now without Una's Christmas Cake, foolish thought though that is. And we all share in our curiosity to see what else has made it into the package. Bruce, naturally, still cribs the stamps from the wrapping – we have had some rather special ones of a Christmas season before now – but there have also been lace fans, folding lanterns, that wafer-thin stationary and any number of niceties that don't so much evoke the holiday for me as they do Trinity House in its minutiae. That is, they give me a picture of what life must look like for Una and Carl. This year the burthen was augmented with the wedding photographs, as I have said, and baking from Li that she only hoped would weather the journey. And then, of course, there is the Christmas letter, that fine, delicate texture of it, and crammed with Una's particular miniscule, combined with the peculiar blend of traditions and mundanities that brings her to the forefront of my mind's eye. It helps a good deal, being able to picture her there.

In indulgent moments I catch myself hoping this will bring her home; in more sensible ones I acknowledge that home for both Una and Carl is no longer my Glen. It is Trinity House, Evelyn St, the ACS on Barker Road and Li. It is much the same with Nan and Jerry, now miles under snow deep in the heart of Labrador and quite unable to make the holiday excursion to the Glen. I would mind, but then, I recall what it is to forge one's happiness. This is theirs, to judge from Nan's cheery missives, and I am grateful for the windows I get into it.

Love and blessings,

J. M.

P.S. You might like to know that presently not only Gil, but also Drs Parker and Coulter have succumbed to this season's influenza. Jem, Faith and Bruce between them did their best to breach the gap this left over the holiday, and Dr. Hargreave over harbour has been carrying on since their departure. But it did make me think of my Latin grammar days as a lowly Divinity scholar; _qui custodis_ and all that.

* * *

Martyrs' Manse,  
Kingsport,  
February, 1929

John,

On the subject of Latin grammar days, someone has gifted Evie a copy of _Mother Goose_ for Christmas, and all we have heard ever since is a ceaseless stream of _I do not like thee, Dr. Fell_. I had never heard it before; it was not in _my_ copy of _Mother Goose_ , nor could Faith find it in the children's, when I sent her looking. She _did_ recognize it though from her days working sight translations from your Latin grammars in her Queens Entrance days. Does it mean anything to you? I cannot say it's especially striking, as nursery rhymes go, but Evie adores it. Sam, Ellie, and, I confess, myself, have long since grown disenchanted. Phil, on the other hand, is charmed. Anyway, it has quite replaced fireside acrobatics. Though Jake's lads, I'll have you know, have swapped igniting the Christmas tree for a love of homemade fireworks. I've lost count of all the singed fingers and have newly found sympathy for Mrs Bennet's nerves, as my own bear a striking resemblance whenever said firecrackers are launched. Phil has done the maths and reckons we used more butter this season on salving their fingers than we did on baking and toast.

Do pass on my congratulations to Carl, won't you? And my apologies to Gil about my daughter, who is steadfastly set up in Ipoh, and currently embroiled in a campaign to introduce Oldham's Matriculation Course to Horley Hall as a means of opening the Queens Scholarship up to the Malaya children too. This in light of the fact that rules make it such that she cannot teach in the present circumstance. This means she is in no way available to head up the editorial section of _The Glen Notes_ in its new iteration, should Di and company ever get the project off the ground.

Meanwhile, I am not at all sure how I feel about my grandchildren being born abroad. I suppose you must have thought a little on this subject, in light of recent happenings? It's not that I don't think Ipoh, or indeed the surrounding area safe, on the contrary, they sound quite safe as houses, when not describing those rural roads with their twists and turns. It's much more selfish than that, really; I have grown used to _meeting_ my grandchildren when they come, and of course this will be quite out of the question. That does nothing to diminish my delight, nor Phil's either. But we're holding you to that sabbatical, which I'm beginning to suspect was only theoretical. But if you do find yourself over in Singapore, I understand it's only a very _little_ journey over the causeway and on to Ipoh, in spite of the scarcity of trains. We could never get away, parish affairs being what they are. The Secretariat is _still_ short candidates for Elders. Have you ever known the like? I'm used to being spoiled for choice. But then, I suppose the presiding generation is waning, and the young people are – understandably – reluctant to engage in the temperamental politics of Session. I can't say I blame them. I'd sooner be winterising boats myself.

May you ever be well, do good work and keep in touch.

Jo

P.S. I infer from something Shirley said over the Agape last week that Rilla Ford is expecting another baby. That cannot be right, is it?

* * *

New Manse,  
Glen St Mary,  
Feb, 1929,

 _I do not like thee, Dr. Fell,  
_ _The reason why – I cannot tell.  
_ _But this I know, and know full well;  
_ _I do not like thee, Dr. Fell._

Doesn't everyone know that one? It does indeed bring back the grim hours of my Latin lessons, though I had not realised it had since transcended into nursery rhyme stuff. (I have looked through our old and battered copy of _Mother Goose_ ; it is not there either.)

I hear through the grapevine that you are starting on the paperwork for the restoration of Holy Trinity, Waterford. Having lately put in to have the Church Hall refurbished (and that merely a worldly Grade B listed building), you have my heartfelt sympathy. The paperwork involved is like nothing on earth. In fact, while filling it in I developed a theory that there was a circle of Hell Dante forgot in which one did nothing but perpetually tick boxes on forms for the restoration of Heritage Buildings everlastingly and await the Synod verdict. I quite understand why we run everything by committee, indeed I am grateful for it, but do not think I am never tempted the other way. As I have sometimes observed to Rosemary, if anything could make me jump ecclesiastical ship for her dioecian heritage, it is listed building restorations.

You are not wrong about Rilla. The baby is due in the summer and Gil is grim and anxious and pretending he isn't, which he chiefly does by rushing around the Glen at a higher than normal rate of noughts. Prescriptions have never been so prompt. The atmosphere being contagious, Anne, Di and Susan are not much better, though Hector goes rather a long way to reassuring all of them. As does Dulce. I suppose you heard about that? Possibly not. It strikes me that Gil has been rather too preoccupied with children and grandchildren to run to such minutiae as the dog that adopted Ingleside. There hasn't been a dog there since Monday died, as you'll recall. This one was found by Alastair under one of the half-finished cottages he is working, out at Four Winds Point. It was half-drowned from the rain, and starved so that its ribs showed through. It was also small enough that he brought it home in his hat. It didn't get much further than the veranda though, being so covered in bites from ticks and fleas and all sorts that neither Di nor Susan would have it in the house. It had the widest brown eyes I have ever seen though, and apparently even Susan couldn't see those and let it go hungry, because she shortly emerged from the kitchen with the fat intended for her chicken broth, and the information that she had been on the 'phone to Fox Corner to find out how to make the animal presentable again. Thereafter, Gil and Alastair lost a long day drowning fleas in rubbing alcohol, and ticks likewise, having repurposed Gil's medical tweezers accordingly. I went round, meaning to share a letter from Faith, and was duly roped into the cause. By the time we had finished the dog was named Dlucinae, Dulce for short, Alastair was drawing up sketches for a doghouse, and her tenure at Ingleside was established.

She has since put on sufficient weight to render her identifiable as some kind of spaniel. Gil is for training her up and taking her with us on subsequent hunting excursions, thinking she might save us some of the effort of retrieval. I am doubtful this will happen, partly because it would involve a degree of fluency in Gaelic we none of us have (she does not appear to speak English), and partly because Susan and Di's best efforts notwithstanding, Dulce has now infiltrated the house. She does not even keep to the coconut matting, as Carl's Akela does, but scrabbles up onto unsuspecting knees and furniture as a matter of policy. Di is indignant, Susan horrified, where Gil, Alastair and Anne are indulgent. Hector is wary, having never before had a rival for attention. Gil only laughs and calls it good practice, suspecting that Hector is liable displaced as the Ingleside baby. Though, as he will certainly want to pass that news on to you himself, I never told you. In any case, it is still very early in the proceedings; this would be one of Gil's preternaturally sharp guesses.

The newspaper continues to be a point of ongoing vexation. The Glen edition is fuller than ever of Lowbridge news, as well as a vast quantity of information about the Upper Glen. Susan is furious, and cannot imagine how anyone ever confused Glen St Mary with the Upper Glen. But a recent editorial edict over at the _Lowbridge Herald_ declared the Upper Glen entirely too small to have even its own weekly paper, so what was _The Upper Glen Herald_ has been thrown out and here we are. The gathering of McNeillys and Morrises at the Ingleside dining table looks more like a coup by the day as Di and the others plot the liberation of _The Glen St Mary Herald_. No one is clear yet on the how of this, or who will write for it, but that does not deter them at all. Ed Morris has located what he judges a prime location for setting up (the old _Notes_ quarters having since been bought up by the expanding Douglas Dry Goods) and Betty has taken to assessing various properties for their living advantage.

Incidentally, I don't suppose you can account for the craze for allies that is sweeping the school? Christopher is quite wild for them and Faith equally tired of extracting them from youthful throats. I'm not sure what version of the game would involve _swallowing_ them, and do not quite dare ask if this was one of Jem's alternatives to Purple Pill Bets. But perhaps you are braver and can offer enlightenment?

Love and blessings,

J.M.

P.S. I notice there are options for this year's Ash Wednesday Year B selection and am torn between them. It seems we rarely get Joel, but on the other hand, the Isiah is wonderfully expressive. Rosemary says unhelpfully that either way there seems to be an excessive amount about trumpets, considering the season, which does nothing to decide me. Which one do you lean towards?

* * *

 _For anyone wanting to be mired in the minutiae of the Anglo-Chinese Mission, c. the 1920s, the Matriculation Course is roughly equivalent to O-levels as were. For a long time, the mission stopped schooling short of university and sent its graduates on to apprentice-type jobs. This changed first in Singapore, where Oldham House developed a working scholarship program with Oxbridge for select graduates, and later extended to its sister school, Horely Hall, over in Ipoh._


	16. Chapter 16

_One thing I really have not missed about trying my hand at letters is where to break the chapters. The draft I have runs them all together. To all of you reading and/or reviewing your way through them, many thanks._

* * *

Martyrs' Manse,  
Kingsport,  
April, 1929

Gil,

As and when Mara emerges from Easter as observed by Sacred Heart, you might just pass on to her that she has my everlasting gratitude for corralling Di and Alastair up for the holiday. Of course, it was wonderful to see you too, but that pales next to the lightness that comes of having someone answer the vexed question of Holy Trinity's listed building status. Phil and I have been swithering over boxes on the paperwork for months based on the guidelines provided. Alastair McNeilly took one look at them, another at Holy Trinity, and declared it Grade A as per the rubric. So that is _that_ part of the application sorted. Of course, there remains a detailed summation to write of what exactly I intend to _do_ to the church, why it needs restoring and how we will preserve the original fabric of the building. (Query to be passed on to Alastair; can we petition to preserve none of it? Can it be the original building with all new parts? The church in question is egregiously dilapidated.) There is also a financial detail to be addressed, explaining how we plan to fund the project, and how much money it will demand, but Phil and Sam, thank heaven, are seeing to that.

The children have since departed, and that with great reluctance from their children. Emma particularly was angling to stay, having, as you almost certainly noticed, attached herself rather keenly to your Sophy. Just as well she is due a younger sibling in short order, I suppose, though Sam rather baulks at the idea of reinstituting nursery days. This is a source of great amusement to the one sister, and sympathy to the other. I'll leave you to guess how those pieces fall. Suffice it to say that any nursery things Naomi's children come by will be of the homemade variety, there being nowhere in the vicinity to purchase such niceties. I gather Una and Li have set her up pretty well for life with blankets, clothes an wearable slings. These last are, apparently, particularly remarkable, being all done up in minute embroidery and something called silk shading. All I know about it is that the last greatly impressed Mara, who says the tension required to do it well is very particular, whatever that means.

I trust you returned to find both Susan and Dulce well and as you left them. I recall there was some concern about the resurgence of Susan's dizzy spells as you were departing for us.

We all continue well; you can even tell John that the preoccupation with allies has been replaced by a still more baffling one for ladybirds, which I do not understand at all. The city is crawling with them this spring; I found a half-dozen on my windowsill the other day and a collection of them in the guttering of the Cowley house as I was clearing it. They have even got into clothes drawers, apparently undeterred by any of the various charms those in our connection employ. Cloves, nutmeg, and Phil's failsafe of lavender have all proved ineffectual. Both Naomi and Una write in recommendation of camphor chests, but as we have no such thing, we continue to brush the little red-spotted things out of pockets and out from under butter dishes. Faith ventures this is one of the unrecorded plagues of Egypt and if it goes on much longer, I find myself inclined to agree. Anyway, the children race them, of all things, across the picnic tables at break. At least competitive rounds of allies made a kind of sense! Though, as Faith says, at least no one is trying to eat them.

Forgive my bolting now; this year's Fete Planning Committee has begun early and they are very insistent I be there. May you as ever be well, do good work, and keep in touch.

Jo

* * *

Maple St,  
Toronto,  
June 1929

John,

Never again. Really; Rilla has her girl and we can all breath. I'll spare you the details, as none of them were good. She is through it, the baby is through it, and I'm eternally grateful to Ken Ford for not fighting me on the issue of a hospital delivery. I wouldn't usually insist, but it was obvious from the moment labour began that nothing was as it should be. And I fear I have lost my stomach for seeing Rilla in pain of that nature.

Of course, the hospital meant I couldn't bring Rilla through it. On the other hand, I was able to anchor Anne and reassure the little boys, and that's no small thing. Walter, were he here, would vouch for that, having once walked six miles from Lowbridge in the dark, all to make sure his mother wasn't dead. I was thinking of that especially – of little Rilla's birth – as I was telling exactly this story to Jims as we sat in the imperfect waiting room of the Women's College Hospital, Rusholme Road. The seats were stiff and in the end we abandoned them to sit on the floor and play at _Eights_ , not Jims' first choice of game, but one even Anthony could join in. As the evening wore on, Anne and Leslie joined too, and we swapped _Eights_ to teach the boys _Beggar My Neighbour_. About this juncture, Ken decided he was left out, and so he and Owen took over the cards, replacing _Beggar My Neighbour_ with _Whist_ , all of us playing in teams with the children. Susan, had she been there, would have called it perilously close to gambling. But Susan was back at Ingleside, under Di's thumb, and at least in theory, recovering from the latest of her attacks. (I still don't know what they are exactly, and I do not know how else to describe them. Suffice it to say they are Not Good.) By then the smell of the hospital, that odd sterile carbolic-and-ether smell, had begun to grate on all of us. The popular vote was for our own beds, a home-cooked meal and non-canteen tea. You'd think they'd get _that_ right at least; it's the least a place can do if it's going to hold one's family hostage indefinitely. The tarry taste of stewed tea adds insult to injury, frankly, and as this stuff was tepid, I'm incredulous that anyone had the nerve to call it tea in the first place. Probably I am snobbish. Anne, Susan and Rosemary – say nothing of Di – are all that bit proud of their ability to make up an irresistible tea tray. I'd say canteen priorities lie elsewhere, but after watching Anthony build a gelatinous fort of what I make Ditto Mark II, I am unconvinced.

At some point my eyes began to blur with lack of sleep, and the wee ones to doze, so we gave up on cards altogether and that is how I came to be talking to Jims about Walter and how it was perfectly acceptable at age fifteen to be worried for one's mother. He asked any number of questions, and I did my best to answer them, and then there was a doctor there, starched and polished, smelling more of chloroform than blood, telling Ken that mother and daughter were safe. I wanted to weep in gratitude, but didn't feel I could, confronted with Jims's scrutiny.

No chance of their heading home for the foreseeable future, of course, so Anne and I ran the children back to Maple St in the auto, where Persis, bless her, was waiting with hot chocolate and the beds newly made up. The mythical Cass, who I have heard so much tell of, had put in an appearance too, bearing a sausage casserole for later and a series of new stories about Kinship Tables – whatever those are – for the boys. For reasons that defy all logic, these served to put the children to bed without complaint. The Kinship Tables, I mean. Only afterward did Persis seize my elbow and bombard me with questions in a fashion that made plain exactly where Jims had learned to be inquisitorial.

Just about the only thing I couldn't tell her was the baby's name. Luckily at this junction, Ken intervened, emerging from the doorway looking grey, crumpled, and dazed, the stale hospital smell still on him, to tell us her name was Elizabeth Alice Ford. Persis raised a golden eyebrow in inquiry, but not, I think, seriously. We were all too spent with waiting and worrying to rise to anything like playfulness.

The sausage casserole had begun to bubble by then, and the smell of it, tomatoes, generous portion of onions and exotic spices, was inviting. We sat down to it and ate in the dark, until Leslie arrived and thought to light the candles. Under different circumstances she might have teased, said something like, 'Only metaphorically in the dark, I hope?' Tonight she just struck a match, sorted the candles and folded herself into one of the Queen Anne chairs at the table, suffering Cass to make up a plate for her. Leslie, who has never let anyone run her life since Dick Moore. It was deeply unsettling to witness, I can tell you.

It seemed that meal went on both interminably long and lasted no more than a heartbeat before Anne and I found ourselves in the spare bedroom, poised atop a Bethlehem Star Quilt in greens and whites. _From the Ladies of the Rosedale Presbyterian Church_ was written on the corner Anne exposed when she turned down the bed; a housewarming gift to Rilla, I suppose. Anyway, in the privacy of that little green-and-white room with its Bethlehem Star and a braid rug vintage Marilla Cuthbert, I really did weep in gratitude. There was no Jims to startle then, only Anne, and she was a bulwark.

Thereafter I spent a bad night half-dreaming of all the things that had nearly gone wrong but hadn't. Joy featured prominently, though I do not recall this detail; only that Anne woke me to say it was all right, that this wee lady was neither white nor dead, and would be home with her mother in a matter of weeks.

She was, as ever, right. I have since met Miss Elizabeth Alice, a healthy slip of a baby with working lungs, and Ken's dark looks. I suspect she's in a fair way to be spoiled, between Rilla's satisfaction at her existence, and everyone else's collective relief, but cannot really mind. I am, after all, among the number of relieved worshipers. Besides, Cass has already shortened that grandiose name to Sissy, and it seems to have stuck.

Look for Anne and I soon; we were needed here, but Di's reports of Susan begin to press on me and I suspect we will shortly be needed there. Besides, the way things stand, it won't be long before Hector finds himself competing for attention from that quarter. Anne and I might as well be on hand to make up some of the difference. Do write with a report of the Fete. I could use the levity and will have missed ours.

Love ever,

Gil

* * *

Martyrs' Manse,  
Kingsport,  
August, 1929

John,

Arrived in Ipoh; one Joanna Louisa Arnold. Joanie, in common parlance, and the best answer my daughter could find, apparently, to my name. This caught me rather off-guard, having expected no such gesture. The children rarely tread in family names. Jake's Andrew is a notable exception, owing to the proximity of our Andrew's death to his birth. Ruthie's Hetta is another, though that makes sense; Hetta Gordon was the sort of grand personage one expected children to be named after. I am only a rural minister to more churches than is always manageable, who makes a hobby of sending bundles overseas to the ACS. Hardly the stuff names are made of.

I am assured she looks much like her mother, and there are a handful of photos from Fred in support of this. But as is so often the way with babies, none of them makes for a terribly clear impression and the evidence is at best of dubious admissibility. The general sense is of a fuzzed, blurred head, a vast quantity of blankets in Una's shell stitch and a nose that Phil cannot stop apologising for.

In other news, your faith in Heritage Trusts, while obviously lesser than mustard seeds, was not misplaced. Ours has written to inform me that, and I quote, _Notwithstanding the designation of Holy Trinity Church, Waterford, as a Heritage Listed Building (Grade A), we are unable to contribute financially towards its restoration at this time_. It then gives a list of reasons for withholding funding in prose so convoluted and dense as to make one's head spin. I'll spare you those. So now I am appealing the application in the interest that the committee accepts it a second time through. Alastair has offered to look over the application before resubmission, and Sam is re-evaluating the funding request, Phil being too incensed to do so with any equanimity. As she says, why take the trouble of listing a building as Heritage, grade A or otherwise, if not interested in its preservation?

That is the gist of the letter, by the by. The Heritage Trust is presently too taken up with other diverse projects, all of which are equally worthy of consideration, but that necessarily constrict funds, et&, et&. I can't think what they are – Kingsport is hardly so full of Heritage listings as all that!

Jem and Shirley, conferring, wonder if we wouldn't have better luck applying through Yarmouth. Possibly, but as we cannot take out-of-parish funding on such projects, it's all a bit pointless. If I have to stomach that application again, I'll stick to eligible contributors, thanks all the same. Forgive me; you know how little time I have for this kind of political wrangling. If I had my way, I'd be mending the choir loft myself. But it requires scaffolding to be done properly, and I don't have scaffolding, and anyway, even I acknowledge that that is beyond me at this juncture. My knees would never stand it.

I suppose Gil will be back from Toronto by now? His last letter had him returning by way of Kippewa, which I take to mean your Jerry and Nan are returned from Labrador. I look forward to a reprise of The Red Canoe. For all Jerry's landscapes, that still life has always been my favourite. You might let him know.

Be well, do good work and keep in touch.

Jo

* * *

New Manse,  
Glen St Mary,  
September, 1929

Jo,

You'll forgive me if I take Phil's side about the naming of Joanie. Considering how much of you went into the shaping of her mother, I am hard pressed to come up with a better alternative. I am not at all sure it can be done. I do, however, take your point about the pictures. Gil returned from his travels with a glut of them, both of little Sissy Ford and of our little girls in the Kippewa, and it was very difficult to glean anything from them. I find Nan's letters and Jerry's watercolour cards make for a much better impression. Mandy's too – I did tell you, didn't I, that she's taken to following Jerry on excursions? She draws animals more than she does landscapes, and has positively colonised the local rabbit community, feeding them lettuces and all sorts. (The fact that this saves _her_ from having to eat the lettuces, is, I am solemnly informed by youthful copperplate, an auxiliary bonus _only._ Emphasis hers.) Gil even came home with a report of a tame mouse. Miri was scandalised, Nan exasperated. Li sent a very short note full of dietary advice for the survival of rodents and Una a much longer treatise on the best way to protect one's bed from unwanted animal intruders, addressed to Miri care of our Manse. She mixed said advice in with a good deal of reminiscing and we were much reduced to laughter, me most of all, who had no recollection whatever that Carl once took a frog to Sunday School. Carl, when he got to hear of it, was positively gleeful.

Well, Carl would be, seeing as his latest addition to the menagerie was a buffalo. I suppose Una told you? She and Li were sitting out on the veranda, nursing tea in Gladstone Blue Ribbon, while Li sketched a nearby cluster of myna birds, when a great commotion sent the whole flock (forgive me, I am unclear on the collective noun for mynas) into the air. Li, being preoccupied with her sketch, did not observe the cause, straight off, though Una did, and gave what Carl terms a 'yelp' of indignation. I'm not sure I blame her. Anyway, the yelp got Li's attention and she looked up to see Carl coming up the walk, calm as you please, with a buffalo on a lead.

You can imagine the scene that caused. Una reports the conversation as follows.

'I don't like it.' Li.

'I don't want it here,' Una.

'It's a buffalo.' This from Carl, apparently thinking they had misunderstood.

'I see that.' This from Una.

'I won't feed it.' Li again.

'What _does_ it eat?' Una, genuinely curious, I think.

'Grass. It can live in the garage. We don't use it.' Three guesses who said _that_.

Li still wasn't going to feed it, and neither was Una. Though as of the present moment, that is exactly what has happened. Una goes out mornings and feeds it, and reading between the lines, I think both she and Li have been converted, though they won't acknowledge this. Perhaps strangest of all, _Nenni_ – the opinionated cat! – is devoted to it. She climbs up onto its back and grooms it – and the buffalo lets her! Akela meanwhile, is wary and Puck horrified. But of course Puck is horrified; he patently dislikes anyone who stands between Carl and himself.

The children, obviously, are wild for buffalos of their own. I have had a very exasperated telephone call from Faith to tell me so. It is all Christopher will talk about, and the Carlisle children too. They are engineering a garden shed with the purpose of housing their own buffalo and no one has the heart to tell them there are none to be had in Kingsport. Aside from anything else, this might divert them towards the more immediately accessible _cow_ and that would never do. Five children and Tuesday the Dachshund is more than ample cause of chaos in Faith's book. Three children, I suppose I ought to say. But somehow I always end up counting Teddy and Kitty among them.

Best of luck in your reapplication to the Heritage Trust. Do run the thing by me if you think it will help, though I cannot at all remember what I did to restore the church hall. As I say, it was only a Grade B building, and I have largely blocked the ordeal from my memory.

And while I think of it, who is Alice Caldicote? She's started cropping up with regularity in Bruce's correspondence, and you did promise to tell me if anything looked like sticking. I thought I had got to know his set; Everard Hartley, Mark Gregory and Bede Jarrow have long ago become household names. This is a new one though, with no particulars attached. Enlightenment would be welcome.

Love and blessings,

J.M.

* * *

Martyrs' Manse,  
Kingsport,  
October **,** 1929

John,

Young Gregory didn't wash out of the program after all then? Well done Bruce on getting him through exams – I did say he would. Now, to the substance of your letter. Alice Caldicote is very English, a frequenter of the university chapel, reads chemistry and has a taste for pressing flowers and riverside excursions when out-of-class. So much I have gathered. She is also an occupant of the top floor of the university library, which is, I understand, how they met in the first place, both favouring desks buried in the periodicals. Faith hazards that they overlap substantially, the curriculum being what it is, as she now hears reports through former lecturers of their going between classes together, Tuesdays especially for some reason. I'm not at all sure, though, as to whether Alice is a permanent fixture or not; no one can give me a straight answer. Phil says she is, Faith says not and Mara says that that is Faith having stuck Bruce perpetually at age 8 or so. Ellie agrees with her. Mara, this is, not Faith. That, by the by, is a terrifying combination. I forget now when they were ever in the same room together, but it's evidently one of those quickly made but firmly founded friendships.

Bruce, incidentally, dodges all inquiries rather spectacularly, and I am reliably informed by Jem that he gets that from you – something about the way you deliver a sermon. Having heard your sermons, I tend to think this is Jem teaching the Gospel of Cheek to his children, more than it is an accurate representation. _He_ says Alice isn't going anywhere, for what it's worth. So parse that lot at your leisure.

Neither is this application going anywhere. I have looked at it six ways from Sunday and cannot think how to improve upon the original sufficient to carry my point with the Heritage Trust. Shirley stopped by Holy Trinity the other day, en route from the Rathsay farm, to snap photos of the damage in question, in the hope that this would provide more conclusive evidence. I do not know what the Trust will make of it, but I am hopeful. Among the photos is one of a badly split section of the courtyard, quite hazardous to the children in attendance. There is also the warped choir loft, the leaking narthex, and the damage occasioned there, and a handful of others in theme and variation.

I am consoled in all of this, that buffalo have played no part. Your daughter has the patience of a saint, and apparently so has Li. A monkey is one thing – I understand them to be small – but a buffalo!

For what it's worth, Susan may be heartened to hear that the number at Fox Corner has increased, albeit in atypical fashion. Mara's sister is down to stay indeterminately – something to do with familial disagreement, from what I can learn. This is not much, none of the party involved being among my flock, and private people besides. Suffice it to say that Fox Corner have given her harbour, to which end I was surprised to find the door opened to me the other day by a tall, gangly young person unknown to me, though her eyes made her fairly self-evidently Mara's sister. Funny how all the McNeilly children seem to get the same colouration and shape, isn't it? Happily that way of looking _through_ you as Mara and Alastair have had eluded this particular McNeilly, much to my relief. I have great affection for Mara, and am grateful for Alastair's architectural insights as to my churches, but that doesn't mean I'm any less disconcerted than the average person at having my mind all but read. Though perhaps you have grown used to it?

I must leave off; there's a Secretariat meeting to oversee. But before I go, did Dulce really steal an entire chicken out from under Susan's nose? However did that happen?

May you ever be well, do good work, and keep in touch.

Jo

* * *

Ingleside,  
Glen St. Mary,  
October, 1929

Jo,

The chicken was Di's, not Susan's. As Susan keeps insisting to all and sundry, nothing of the sort would _ever_ happen in _her_ kitchen. If she hadn't been laid up in bed at my insistence when the episode transpired, I might have reminded her of the day Dr-Jekyll-and-Mr-Hyde got into her pantry. Di had fetched the bird in question from the cold room to thaw, and had underestimated Dulce's cunning in climbing onto the kitchen counter. Dog Monday never tried, so we took it as read the thing was impossible. His inheritor, though, has worked out that if one fails to return the stepping-stool to its place under the kitchen sink, she can climb up onto it and leap from there to the counter. Which is exactly where she was when Di returned from talking newspaper strategy to start on supper, and looking about as pleased with herself as a dog can do. Needless to say she was in disgrace for many days afterwards and we were reduced to a pick-up supper, those of us not laughing too forcibly to interfere with eating.

Far more interesting news, though, is the safe delivery of our own Miss Abby; Abagail Laura on paper – after mother and the sister I hadn't realised I'd mentioned to the children. (Subsequent intrusion from Anne assures me I never did; I mentioned it to _her_ back when Miri was so ill. I suppose she passed the idea on.) It came as quite the unlooked for tribute, and one I had not realised I wanted. My children trade in family names about as often as yours do, which is to say, not often. I would not say I mind; on the contrary, I have loved learning the logic and reasoning behind the names they have chosen. The honouring of a champion in Christopher's borrowed inheritance, the nod to Dad in Iain's name, the Latin that coloured Nan and Jerry's courtship so that there was no other name for their girl but a gerund iteration of the verb _to love_. They are all fine legacies, and I would not exchange them.

The acknowledgement of Mother though – trust Di, of all of them, to intuit how much I have missed Mother. Laura I scarcely remember; she is a name in our family bible and a nut-brown daydream.

Mother was an anchor. The letters she used to write to me out west wore through long-ago, though I have them still in the secret drawer of what was her jewellery box. I have ages since divided the contents between Anne and the girls, but I find I am selfishly attached to the box. Even now it smells of Mother, her rosewater and the cinnamon she baked into everything. The lining is worn quite to ribbons, and the inlay Dad painted on it beginning to dissolve as the varnish peels off; I have touched it once too often for reassurance, I suppose.

If it comes to that, I have made an altar of it over the years, in a peculiar kind of unnamed heresy. She was still there for Shirley's birth, of course, and never was I more indebted to her. But afterwards…I recall sitting before it and praying when Anne had her brush with pneumonia, and coming to it in gratitude after Rilla was born; I took it with me when I went to Walter at the hospital and could not have Anne with me, and I revisited it after he had died and Anne seemed so many miles away. I have only to open the lid to recall with clarity that peculiar blend of humour, warmth and no-nonsense advice that was my mother's. The way, for instance, she moved seamlessly from giving me a spectacular tongue-lashing to pulling me into a hug and handing me tea the day I called Anne _Carrots_. To say I have missed her throughout the latter part of my adult life seems not to do the sentiment justice; to have written her name out on the birth certificate of our latest in a fine line of young women is an unlooked for gift. It's a glorious inheritance, and I have every confidence Di's girl will wear it well. I may even get around to redoing the varnish on that box and giving it over to her in due course.

She is perfect, Jo, this baby. They all are, but in a combination that we have not yet had before, she has got Anne's hair and changeable eyes. Mandy got her hair and Nan's eyes, which are mine. And little Hector got the McNeilly eyes to the letter. Miss Abby has got both; Shirley hair, Shirley eyes, that same delicate skin doomed to burn under the noonday sun. Admittedly, her nose only has four freckles to Anne's seven but that is nothing Glen summers can't rewrite, I imagine. Anne is predictably apologetic over her hair, feeling she ought to look at least _something_ like my mother, seeing as she's got her name. I said I saw nothing wrong with combining all the best of my favourite people in this slip of a girl; Mother's name, Anne's hair, no doubt I shall unearth Di in her over time. Already I suspect her of having got Di's smile. Anyway, as I also pointed out, if we ever get them in the same place at the same time, she will have things in common with Mandy to commiserate over. (Or she would if Mandy disliked her red hair, but as she glories in it, this is perhaps unlikely.)

Speaking of which, the little girls continue to be schooled from Nan's kitchen table, and while I can find no fault in the lessons – Miri recited the entirety of _The Pied Piper of Hamlin_ at me over the 'phone our last catch-up – I should like to hear of the little girls having a friend or two more than each other. Not that I'm much looking to separate them, you understand, but there is something in the way they rely so heavily on each other that unsettles me. God forbid anything were to happen to one of them, what would the other do? Nan says they keep up that language they invented as babies, talking in it en route to sleep, and often finish each other's sentences as she and Di never did. I do not like to point out that Nan was a veritable butterfly at their age, flitting between friends with darting precision. Instead I read the epistolary stories the girls send me, written by Miri and illustrated by Mandy in seamless collaboration. Jerry tells me they go on seaside walks and build sand castles and elven houses and all sorts – but they do it just the two of them and it troubles me. I have known what it is to be alone, to be lonely, at that age, the bone-deep ache of it, the way it permeates the body like haar seeping through clothing, and wouldn't wish it on anyone, least of all my grandchildren. There is a reason Mother's leters to me out on the praire meant so much. But then, there being no school in their present habitat, I suppose I must keep my peace until they are somewhere less remote. Certainly I cannot fault Nan for making a good hand of whatever circumstances deal her. She is happy; her letters are full of it. The same would appear true of her girls also, and I would do well, perhaps not to jump at shadows.

Now, tell me, would I be right in inferring the Ladybird Plague continues? Susan has parsed an exasperated letter of Mara's along these lines and all I can say is that you must be having a remarkable Indian Summer for them to still be about _now_. Look for more from me later; Miss Abby has woken up and I am due an hour of worship at her feet at least – provided no one summon me away prematurely.

Love ever,

Gil


	17. Chapter 17

_With thanks ever to all of you reading and/or reviewing. An extra thank-you here to one Father Ian Michael, whose sermons have come to inspire a sizeable portion of John Meredith's theology, especially this chapter._

* * *

New Manse,  
Glen St Mary,  
November , 1929

Jo,

There was a memorial service today for our War dead, such as they are. I have long found it a grim service, but this year was particularly bad. It was an ecumenical affair, which always causes talk, but Nathan and I thought it was necessary. Better to be a united front, and all that. Nathan hosted, his church being nearer to the village memorial than my clapboard affair is. This put Cornelia's nose out of joint, but it didn't keep her away. Indeed, it was a solid turn-out as these things go. Betty Meade had even come up from Lowbridge for the occasion, because, she said afterwards, the Glen was still the home of her wartime Red Cross chapter. Miranda Milgrave and family came too, less Mr Pryor, which was perhaps for the best. Irene Howard had deigned to appear, and someone attributed the flowers to Ethel Reese and Olive Kirk as was. Really, their number wanted only Rilla, though no doubt she was sitting through the Rosedale Presbyterian equivalent of the same.

It began all right; Miller Douglas stood and recited _The Piper_ , and though that made Anne and Gil greyer than I should have liked, we got on. Norman Douglas lead the prayers in disconcertingly booming fashion. This unnerved Hector, who was anyway absorbing the familial unease like a human sponge and set him off wailing. Gil duly wander out of the sanctuary and settle him, and when he returned Dulce was at his heels. She climbed up into his lap, right there in the pew, and if anyone thought it noteworthy, they got no time to say so. I didn't much mind; she obviously went a long way to soothing her people.

Then we got to the offertory hymn – _Oh God, Our Help in Ages Past_. Nothing unusual in that; we get it often enough at funerals and what have you. But do you know, when it came, _no one_ could bring themselves to sing _They fly forgotten as a dream_. Even the choir went silent. Only young Andy McAllister ploughed stubbornly on with the organ, everyone coming back just in time to begin the next verse. In the silence of the accidental interlude for organ I heard Anne whisper fiercely 'They _aren't_ forgotten.'

She's right, of course. The dead might bury the dead, but we never forget them. I recall Rosemary said once, on one of those windy evenings up at the Old West House, that she had been taught in girlhood to believe that no one was ever _quite_ dead until there was no longer anyone left to remember them. I might have argued the point, but Ellen got there first, and it fell out Rosemary and I fought our corner against her – rather neatly too, though I say it myself. It was after that, apparently, that Ellen got it into her head about what she called 'philandering' – but I digress.

I came away, and I don't suppose I gave much thought to it much until the following Easter, when I owed the congregation a sermon on the Resurrection and myself a way to rationalise my relinquishing of a ghost. The sermon wouldn't write, and I was making no headway with the other at all. In the end I spent a long afternoon unboxing Cecilia's drawings – for the children, as I then thought – and poring over them. It must have been then that the debate with Ellen came back to me, what Rosemary had said. The writing came quite effortlessly after that, about the way the act of remembrance sustains our hope in the resurrection, because when it came to the point it was memory that first gave life-after-life to our personal ghosts.

There was no sense going into all of that this morning; we were all far too raw with reminiscence. I read off our dead, and Gil came up with Hector in his arms to lay a wreath on the chancel steps, and Anne with them. There was another hymn – one we could all sing right the way through – and then Nathan Arnold gave the benediction and we dispersed.

There was an awful, fine mizzle in the air, so that we were quite damp by the time we regained the manse. The Ingleside party had come with us, not being up to facing the house just yet, and we forgathered in the parlour while Rosemary made up the Victoria Rose on a tray, and bore it out even down to a selection of scones and garibaldi biscuits no one had much appetite for. They smelled well enough; Rosemary's scones always come up air-light and smell wonderfully of cinnamon and golden raisins, but the memory of that hymn and its occluded lines still hung in the air like treacle. I looked across the room at an old Maywater watercolour of Cecilia's depicting a clutch of Easter Lilies and thought we should all drown in the residual weight of the memory if someone did not speak.

We were saved, as is so often the way, by little Hector, who chose that moment to commence an animated kind of babble with one of Rosemary's cushions. Alastair, ever good with him, responded in kind – or might as well have, given my utter lack of Gaelic. Gilbert has none either, whatever he tells you to the contrary, because immediately he said, 'No, don't – I want to be able to understand him when his words do come in!' and just like that we were all laughing and better for it.

Alastair argued that Iain switches languages practically by the sentence, and those aren't even always familial inheritances.

'Yes,' said Gil, 'and look where that's got us,' but without any heat. How does the children's joke go? That the little Kingsport rascals are fluent in four languages, English, Gaelic, Yiddish and Shorthand? I can't remember who came up with it now, only the look on Rosemary's face as she asked sincerely, 'Where did the shorthand come from?'

That got us to talk of Kingsport, and thence to city news, which I won't linger on as no doubt you are living it. On which subject, as I've been meaning to ask, how does Sam get on in Halifax? Bruce's latest letter suggests that he has taken something of a hit, the market being what it is at the moment. It's all any of his fellows can talk about, as the term draws to a close and they scrabble for funds for the upcoming year. Bruce has contrived what sounds a grim sort of job in the depths of _The Chronicle,_ corralling the galleys to order the duration of the summer, and that should combine with next year's scholarship to see him through his first honours year. Even so, we shall miss him this summer. Rosemary especially counts on his coming home; she doesn't trust St Regulus Hall to feed him up properly, and worries too that he is overworking. Reading between the lines of his sporadic letters, I am less convinced on this score. At any rate, there are enough mentions of friends and evenings out to satisfy. Dancing appears back in fashion, which all here find heartening. I recall all too plainly Faith's university letters and how full of _work_ they were, how light on revelry. This is better. Even if Rosemary's mild inquiries into Miss Caldicote yielded nothing but an indignant _It's not like that!_ over the telephone. It happens I believe him. When I reclaimed the earpiece, he was full of righteous indignation at having to defend the friendship _ad infinitum_ to outside observers. I gather she is the better chemist, and as such his preferred partner in the lab, and that is that.

Of course, sojourning at Kingsport through the summer will leave Gilbert rather short-handed, as Dick Parker has promised to spend the summer visiting children. Gil and the young doctor over Lowbridge way will cobble something together between them, I shouldn't wonder, and Faith will fill some of that breach when they travel down on Jem's furlough, but it's a very imperfect arrangement as you'll appreciate.

Do let me know how you and yours get on. And be sure to tell me when the appeal verdict from the Heritage Trust comes through. I have it ever on my list of prayerful things.

Love and blessings,

J.M.

* * *

Martyrs' Manse,  
Kingsport,  
November, 1929

John,

Sam reports a run on the bank as of last week, and that was no good at all, for morale or economics. Not that there was any reasoning with the mob swarming the Royal Bank on Water St. Jake does little better, having lost a sizeable portion to last month's crash. They'll weather it; they always do, those boys. As much because they have good partners at their sides as because they grew up on what Phil calls short strings. It's the grandchildren I feel rather badly about; they're going to have to learn to get by on less than they're used, and the whole point of the boys migrating to the city was to spare them that. So wags the old world away, I suppose.

Ruthie and Mark are shutting up the excess rooms at Mount Holly, and making plans to reduce the household's numbers. Just about the only one of ours to continue unaffected would seem to be Naomi, over in Ipoh and connected by a causeway to one of the busiest ports in the world. It's strange, but reading between the lines, she, Una, and the ACS are only tangentially aware of the seismic shift that has transpired in the affairs of men.

We are acutely aware of it, as our parishioners scurry to cobble together something like a continued existence. Phil has suggested a communal Christmas, such as we used to do in the old days, when Sam was a baby, and I think there may be something in it. A dish per family may well prove easier to run to than an entire meal.

Faith, meanwhile, has extracted the recipe for fish head soup from Mara and is now in the process of learning the secret to making the children _eat_ it. I gather she, Alastair and Mharie (that's the younger sister) all grew up on it, as has Iain, to judge from his equanimity. The same is not true of the Larkrise inhabitants, who are more than a little disconcerted by a meal that stares at them. Stupidly, I let slip that I saw their point, but I said it to Sam's Ellie, who grew up a fisherman's daughter, and she was reduced to tears of laughter for quite the next ten minutes.

You will be unsurprised to hear that we continue to wait the outcome of our appeal to the Heritage Trust for Waterford. If we do not hear within the week, I will ring them myself and see what can be wrangled from them. Until then, there is outreach to do, at home as well as abroad. I shall do it to the best of my ability, as I trust will you.

I have it from Faith that you and yours are coming to us for Christmas. To that end, I look forward to seeing you at Martyrs' over the holiday. You are, as ever, more than welcome to stop in for tea and biscuits. Indeed, I expect nothing less. But until such a time as two or three are gathered together,

Be well, do good work, and keep in touch,

Jo

* * *

New Manse,

Kingsport,  
January, 1930

Jo,

I was sorry to hear the Heritage Trust appeal had failed again. Indeed, all of us here were. Naomi in particular is quite indignant, and by extension Joanie, who understands only that her grandfather is cross. (Gil's word; I ventured it was perhaps not altogether apt.) I suppose there's a chance that a moderated council might yet influence the verdict, though under the circumstances, I rather wonder if it would be worth it. If nothing else, it seems the height of unreasonability that you have to pay the application fee a third time over, especially under the circumstances.

It was good to have caught you over the holidays. It has been too long since we wrangled lectionary, hymnody and translation. Also since anyone reminded me there was much of a world beyond the pulpit. My daughters do their best to keep such affairs at least within my line of sight, but nothing quite realigns me as an afternoon helping you wrestle the radiators into serviceable use, or laying a table for communal supper. In light of which, Rosemary presses me to inform you that your note thanking her for our contribution of chutneys towards the Martyrs' Christmas dinner was altogether unnecessary. They were a very slight offering, and the least we could do for such good friends.

Here too, the milk market has plummeted radically. Hal Taylor has lost the supermarket contract he had, and cannot pick up another one for love nor money. Meanwhile, the milk float is losing customers by the day. The bank on the high street has experienced exactly the kind of run you and Sam describe, and Gil reckons that that was nothing to what has transpired in Charlottetown. Douglas Dry Goods is gamely attempting to weather the current storm and succeeding by the skin of its teeth.

Accordingly, I am reliably informed that Rosemary's shortbread this year owes entirely to a parcel from Una containing, among other things, cane sugar, rice flour and honey. Have I remarked before, Jo, how odd it is to be on the receiving end of such a parcel? It is a strange thing. We're used to the annual Christmas parcel, obviously, but this was quite something else. I wonder if our ACS recipients feel similarly catapulted sideways on receipt of our parcels.

I know, both from her letters and teas with your daughter, that the ACS still relies heavily on outside support, but simultaneously find it is located in the one city braving the current economic crisis better than anywhere else. Carl outlined the particulars in minute detail recently, something about the drop in importation being negligible; your Sam would perhaps understand it. I fear I do not. Not for nothing has Rosemary ever done the bookkeeping here.

Love and blessings,

J.M.

* * *

Martyrs' Manse,  
Kingsport,  
January, 1930

Gil,

The General Assembly have met and are reassigning Waterford to the parish of Kingsport Central. This means it is now directly affiliated with Hope Park Kirk on the High St.

Ask Bruce for fuller particulars. I gather this is Alice's home church. Suffice it to say it is _miles_ from Waterford, but considerably better off than my little parish of Kingsport Fisheries, otherwise The Bundle Kirk. So called, by the by, for its habit of making up bundles and sending them on to mission efforts.

But Holy Trinity, Waterford is in dire need of restoration, as you well know. The heritage applications having failed twice over, we must necessarily make up the money out-of-pocket, impossible to do given its Heritage Building status. (A question; when did Canada start designating every and all churches built subsequent to the Jubilee Year as Heritage Sites?) Kingsport Central is a thriving parish with a congregation that can well afford to give, were it so minded. The General Assembly have, therefore, ruled that it is more sustainable to entrust Waterford and its restoration to its care.

I want to be glad about it, Gil, really. Never mind that I am losing friends in this parochial musical chairs. I know full well there is nothing to stop me dropping in on my Waterford acquaintances as the spirit moves me. Equally do I know that Kingsport Central, for all its virtues – and they are many – is a parish of Ministry. It is also rich, much richer than we ever were, and accordingly its pew rent is higher. If anyone can restore Waterford's Holy Trinity, it is them. Even so, and in the full knowledge I can do nothing about it, I find I lie awake now fretting about how crippled Holy Trinity would be by an increase in pew rent. They are rich in many things, my Waterford people, but not gold. Somehow I do not think Rev Hannigan will see chickens as an acceptable alternative.

That being the case, I prophecy attendance decreases as rent increases, and I do not know where they will go, not only for church, though of course their spirits concern me, but also for hot meals and clothing gifts and for help winterising boats and houses. There is a leak hard by the back door that I have yet to patch; now I will never get to it. I pray that Rev Hannigan, who will see to these things, but as Mission was ever my portion in our ecclesiastical balancing act, I venture this is unlikely. Though certainly Waterford will know more thoughtful sermons hereafter. Still, I do worry for it.

For the time being, Elie remains in my care, and that is something to be grateful for. It was always a poor village, and now it is harder than ever. Phil was over that way the other day, sewing baby clothes for Mrs Andrews tenth baby, and came home with harrowing reports of grey, soured milk and streaky butter. Subsequent inquiry, while delivering soup to the ailing milkman's wife, revealed the Andrewses have long since cancelled their subscription to the milk float. Phil supposes they have been making do ever since. I have made a mental note to increase our subscription and add dairy to our Friday Food Ministry meals. I don't see where else they can get it, or what else to do that will not trespass on the dignity of my parishioners. Though if what John says is sound, and I'm confident it is, then even that may not help. Am I right thinking now is entirely the wrong time to be in dairy?

John's Una has been very thoughtful, sending any number of parcels back our way, and it is _odd_ Gil, to be on the receiving end of such bounty, John is right. And yet, as she tells me, Singapore is a port; she and Carl want for very little in the way of niceties. She adds a bit about the necessity of avoiding the Japanese shops that have sprung up in the city centre– partly loyalty to Li, partly to avoid incurring local anger – but as there is so much choice, this is no great hardship.

In other news, your Di will be heartened to hear that Naomi and family are returning home. You may yet recruit her to the cause of the revitalised _Glen Notes._ Horley Hall has satisfied its roster of teachers for the coming year, and under the circumstances she is keen to be nearer her family. It strikes me I owe her an apology for doubting her. I really thought we had lost her to foreign fields. Admirable, of course, but not always an easy pill to swallow. Now I find she will be here in time for summer, and I will meet her daughter after all. Better still, she and Fred will divide their time between Martyrs' and the Glen until such a time as niceties like housing and work can be arranged. I don't suppose you have any ideas?

With any luck this season is kind to you, and especially to Susan. She now exists in perpetuity on my intercessions lists, such as they are. Sources tell me there is a particularly virulent strain of 'flu going the rounds; I hope it leaves you some time for cossetting the children.

May you ever be well, do good work, and keep in touch.

Jo

* * *

Ingleside,  
Glen St Mary,  
January, 1930

Jo,

A bit of serendipity to leaven your present circumstance. Mary Douglas has _finally_ persuaded Cornelia out of that impossibly big, green house out Four Winds way. It only took a bad bout of double pneumonia this winter, her increasingly warped hands, and I no longer know how many sprains and breaks to her personage to do it, but the thing is done. She will live in the house abutting Douglas Dry Goods with Mary and family hereafter. This leaves said house vacant, which is not a tenable position _at all_ , and Cornelia is deeply uneasy about what to do with it. Obviously it is impossible to keep it up uninhabited in the current climate; I hazard Cornelia has been quietly living on her savings ever since Marshal died. And obviously it can't go to an interloper. We get quite enough of that of a summer, with all those city people holidaying in those cottages Alastair helped to build.

The point is, I venture she would forgive Fred Arnold his Methodism in the name of keeping the house in local hands. Naomi was practically one of ours before leaving, and Fred _certainly_ was. You might suggest it to them as an option house-wise. Especially since it would put Naomi in a very convenient position to help with the paper.

On which, incidentally, Di and Ed Morris have finally made headway. It turns out running a paper the size of _The Lowbridge Herald_ is an expensive venture. They've tried running it on diminished staff but all that achieved was missed deadlines and diminished copy quality. Anne was beginning to make a hobby of taking red pen to the columns, and Norman Douglas to say it was good for nothing but wrapping chips. It was, therefore, surprisingly easy to buy back the Glen edition for a song, and the company involved are presently sitting at the dining room table drafting an advertisement for writers. Ed thinks a fair few of the displaced _Herald_ contingent might migrate, and Di has hopes of recruiting some of our local Drews and McAllisters to the cause. Already Mary Douglas has hinted she could write a column on home cures for common ailments and I have had to resist rolling my eyes. This because she _once_ cured Jims of Diptheria Croup on an evening when I was stranded in Avonlea! Mind you, this is as nothing next to Olive Drew's offer to write up a weekly piece on romantic advice. Di _did_ roll her eyes over that one, though otherwise she kept a straight face. Ed Morris did not, which has offended Olive, but then, as Betty rightly points out, Olive is always being offended by people.

And talking of Betty, she and family are moving back to the Glen for ease of reinstigating this paper. Also, I suspect, because the Glen has ever been more affordable than Lowbridge, which place neither she nor Ed ever seemed to care for anyway. They have set up in a modest place on the shore road, quite a gentle walk to Ingleside, and the children are always on it. I see long years of them running through Rainbow Valley together with Di's children, and after having it so long quiet – excepting the summers – I am gladdened by the thought. The idea of laughter re-echoing through the valley in perpetuity again is one I had not realised I needed until the reality was before me.

Love ever,

Gil

P.S. You are not wrong in your talk of dairy. I was up at the Taylor farm the other day treating old Mrs Taylor's rheumatism, and was paid in eggs from the white Chinese hen for my trouble. Hal talks of going into mixed farming, and his wife of how doing so will send his ancestors spinning in their graves.

* * *

 _For anyone who wants specific percentages of decreases in exports to Singapore over the course of the 1930s, you know where to find me. I have a chapter of a book full of nothing else. But I also haven't a mathematician's brain, so I thought I'd spare us those figures unless it became a point of express interest._


	18. Chapter 18

Martyrs' Manse,  
Kingsport,  
March, 1930

Gil,

As predicted, Cornelia was more than happy to settle the house with the children. _Ask and you shall receive,_ I suppose. Even so, thank you for thinking of them. If I can't have Naomi back on my doorstep, and realistically, that was never going to be the case, it does me good to think she will be close to you. This means, in all probability, that you can guarantee at least one writer to Di for the newly re-formed paper, as after years of helping to run the ACS I hardly imagine my daughter will relax into sitting idly by at home.

Also, as predicted, there was much noise on the subject of Methodism, but this only evoked laughter from the couple concerned after the fact. I'd say we ought to forewarn John that he's about to have his efforts at Mission overtaken again, but he's an intelligent man and has probably guessed as much already. Besides, he almost certainly has his hands full with study groups and confirmation sessions this season.

Am I right in thinking you are going again to Toronto for Easter? You must send word, if so. It has been some time since I was given a reliable update on Maple St, and I am surrounded by people who are anxious for information. For reasons I cannot fathom, Larkrise and Fox Corner generally assume that what you don't tell them, you tell me.

We, meanwhile, are expecting the entire, chaotic clan at Patterson St, and are still trying to logic out where to put the lot of them. We intend to make the usual nursery of the sitting room, though numbers are now sufficiently advanced that this will be something like a game of sardines. Phil is delighted at the notion and I cannot say that I am not. This means, among other things, the advent of impish Miss Evie, and Emma too, who is getting to be quite as bad – though presently her greatest sin is an addiction to those _Oz_ books. As they aren't _Dr Fell_ \- ask John about that one – I'm not complaining, though her mother is.

(Here Phil interjects again to add her approval of Baum, and inquire as to your thoughts and Anne's on the newest _Mapp and Lucia_. It's doing the rounds here, and all are finding it good fun.)

Ad to which, Sam is being shunted to Kingsport to oversee the Royal Bank here as of the next quarter. I make that Lady Day by the Calendar, and Sam makes that not enough time to sort out moving arrangements. Accordingly, he and family will stay on with us until such a time as they can secure a house. All this because the Waterford bank has an excess of workers, and Kingsport a shortage, or something. I am unclear on the particulars and did not force Sam to elaborate as it evidently troubled him.

It also means Miss Evie, with sisters Emma and baby Elinor, are in a fine position to corrupt your mostly normal grandchildren. Wee Evie's impish stretch has proved contagious, and I predict that in future, illicit shorthand in class will be the least of Helen's escapades. Do pass on my apologies to Faith, for me won't you? Mara too, as I can't imagine Iain and his propensity for fish head soup (what _did_ persuade him to eat it?) will hardly escape unscathed.

Shall I take it the Morris family are now settled back in the Glen? Do be sure to let us know when the grand opening of the new paper is. Kitty is practically bursting for news.

May you ever be well, do good work, and keep in touch.

Jo

* * *

Maple St.,  
Toronto,  
Easter, 1930

John,

What does one say, when on rounding the corner to some familial home, a grandson comes barrelling towards your knees with the declaration, 'You're here! And it's ever so much gladder than last time!'?

Such was our reception by Anthony, all of 5 now, and getting to be a dab hand with a cricket ball. He and the boys were in the middle of a game when Anne and I arrived, Jims captaining the Ford team and Gertrude's wee Robbie heading up the Oliver side. Anthony was bowling, and Anne winced a little at the hardness of the ball, but I reminded her about certain young women of my acquaintance who used to walk ridgepoles on dares and she ended by laughing. Well, mostly. Then she scolded me for telling that story where little pitchers could hear me. This made Jims roll his eyes, even as Liam demanded to know what 'little pitchers' were.

'The likes of you,' said Jims, gamely, and swept him up into a game of what they call 'Swing.' This involves arcing young bodies in ever faster circles, to much delight and dizziness. Jims', as Leslie has more than once observed, is really getting quite good with those boys. Knacky, Susan would call it. Not quite Teddy's grade, but then, few people have Teddy's gift with children. Jims' gets it from Rilla, of course, who even when she didn't _want_ a war baby, necessarily, proved adept at the raising of one.

Anne got Anthony up on her hip and an arm around a reluctant Jims, who was still trailing Liam behind him, and from there we processed into the house. We were greeted by Leslie, with the usual quiet effusiveness, Rilla being in the middle of settling Sissy for a nap. She's not much for sleeping, Sissy, much less in broad daylight when hordes of relatives are arriving. Persis relieved her of the chore, which freed her up to kiss us hello, and Ken gave me a nod from the other side of _The Toronto Star._ He was trying to catch what errors the editorial board had missed. I understand from Kitty there are always _at least_ three (emphasis hers), and Owen concurs. Such niceties were lost on Leslie, who gave him just the same sort of tongue-lashing for impropriety as she used to give back in the days of half-drowned kittens in rainwater.

It gave me a queer sort of feeling, I can tell you, to look at my daughter and Ken Ford in their disparate pursuits and think that _this_ was what young Anthony was regarding as a marked improvement. I'm mostly sure the sun and the moon orbit each other more closely. On the other hand, they're talking to each other, so that's a start. As Anne mused on our way into Union Station, a baby is hardly a bandage to paper over the cracks of a marriage with, not even little Sissy.

But leave that aside. The little boys soon wearied of so much grown-up talk, and Cass appeared from somewhere with Ludo under one arm and promises of further stories of Matrilineal Kinship Tables to enthral them. Off they went with her, happy as clams, only emerging when Rilla summoned them to dinner. Anthony was winning, and there was a new development in the kinship tables that had Liam terribly fired up. I will _never_ understand the fascination, John, and goodness knows, I've tried. Does any of it make sense to you? If so, you really must elaborate on my return. Generally you can bring me round to your side of things.

As far as I can gather, they're a kind of record of tribal familial practice in whatever part of Africa Cass's anthropologists study. _I_ make it very dry stuff. Liam, as I say, is enraptured.

All told, it was a much more convivial Easter than the last. We went with Rilla and the others to Rosedale Presbyterian for the Sunday service, where the sermon wasn't nearly up to your standard. Persis and Leslie had undertaken the lamb this year, which freed Rilla up to devote attention to the children, fussy Sissy not least of these. Though there Anne gave her something of a reprieve, as she spent much of the visit with her granddaughter on her arm. Ken reckons she's shaping up to be rather pretty, but Leslie says it's much too early to tell, and Persis takes her part. I tend to think Ken is probably right, but as he too often knows when this is the case, have refrained from saying so. Besides, at this stage, it really _is_ too early to tell.

I should like, one year, to bring them all together for Easter; Ken and Rilla from Toronto, our Kingsport Contingent, Nan and Jerry from wherever they are at a given moment – ideally get them all back to Ingleside. We've almost managed it once or twice before. If we're especially lucky, we might even get our foreign correspondents back for the occasion, though I suppose the ACS makes its own occasion of Easter. Have I really never asked about that, all these years? It seems unthinkable.

I suppose you will have had your sunrise service, and Bruce will be doing his bit setting up the furniture for the breakfast afterwards. Here the forsythia is newly in bloom, and the tulips shooting through the ground. They're a curious counterpoint to all the signs heralding the election. It seems you can't pass a tram or a college without running across one. There are even one or two in pertinent windows, though not Maple St. Ken, after all, has to keep at least a semblance of neutrality re the outcome.

Be sure to pass on our welcome to Betty and family, as I understand them finally settled on the Shore Road. I know Di much anticipates the upcoming collaboration with them on the paper. Anne looks forward to it likewise, but I confess, I am mostly glad that there will be children on hand to keep Hector and Miss Abby in mischief for the foreseeable. As we have so often observed, God's in His Heaven, and all right with the world.

Love ever,

Gil

* * *

New Manse,  
Glen St. Mary,  
July, 1930

Jo,

No doubt you'll have had word already, but consider this my written testimony that your daughter and family arrived off the train at the Glen St Mary station this morning. They were sunkissed and travel-worn, and with about as many cases between them as Bruce takes to Kingsport at the start of term – and that _with_ the baby things! Rosemary and Anne were quite in awe, though Fred was quick to assure us there were still other oddments – tea chests, camphor chests, and what have you, coming by boat. There was also a quantity of care parcels to be shared between the Manse and Ingleside, full of all sorts of niceties that have become very difficult to get hold of. There was actually yards of shot silk that the women couldn't but marvel at.

But I was talking of your children. Gil met them with the auto and brought them, in the first instance, back to Ingleside for tea. Inside of five minutes, Di had conscripted Naomi to the cause of the paper, and we are already anticipating her news columns. Fred was full of ACS news, and also of Ipoh, which is more reliant than ever on Singapore for resources. I gather that while imports there have slowed, it is a far less substantial fall-off than has been observed elsewhere. Fred Arnold can elaborate for you with all sorts of percentages and rates. I do not pretend to understand the particulars; you must press Gil for those, as he found them quite absorbing. It was over the course of this discussion that the gift parcels emerged, to our surprise and Susan's delight.

Your granddaughter, you will be interested to hear, has Phil's personality as well as her nose, and that same ability to look fresh and put-together after weeks of travel. Naomi had expected a good deal of clinging to skirt-hems; instead, Joanie had barely been set down on the veranda but she was babbling a mile a minute at Hector and Miss Abby. If she returns to you at Easter chatting their pigeon English and Gaelic, you know who to blame. Gil certainly does and makes no bones about doing so.

We have since had an invitation extended to us to the old Bryant house for dinner Saturday week. It would have been set for earlier, but that we all remembered too plainly the effort unpacking involved. Gil and I will go up to help tomorrow afternoon, and that should hasten the procedure somewhat, but even then, unboxing is not the whole of the ordeal. They will want to get their feet under the table, as it were, before they feel comfortable there, much less up to entertaining. But you can be sure that I will write with particulars of the evening as soon as I have them for you.

All my best to Sam and family as and when they move. I vividly recall the upheaval such a venture entails. But you needn't fear for the virtues of our wee ones; the middle Carlisles have already done what they can to corrupt them, as, I have every confidence, has Jem.

Love and blessings,

J.M.

P.S. About _Mapp and Lucia_ ; it has met with wild popularity among our set. I had not read them until lately, and now feel distinctly cheated at having missed out on affairs at Tilling for so long. We are now reading _Strong Poison_ and the women cannot agree on Harriet's treatment of Lord Peter. Rosemary has reservations, as have Susan and Cornelia. Anne adores her and says she is just what Peter needs. Has Phil an opinion?

* * *

Martyrs' Manse,  
Kingsport,  
August, 1930

John,

Phil takes Anne's part re the character of Harriet Vane, and expresses the hope that she features in future books. Also that Campion find a similar foil in, well _anyone_. I suppose _Mystery Mile_ has got to you? If not, Phil intends to send her copy on to Naomi and I have every confidence it can be cribbed off her once she has finished with it.

After much to-ing and fro-ing, and camping in our spare room, Sam and family are finally settled in Kingsport. The house, on King St., is nearer to Hope Park on the High, but they persist in attending church out-of-parish. This pleases Phil, as it gives her an excuse to have the lot of them over for Sunday dinner after the service, and Ellie, who does not have to complete Church Census Forms in consequence. There is a new one doing the rounds, as you've no doubt noticed, and she swears the number of questions has increased since '25. I tend to agree, though you will know better.

Numbers are fewer of late, especially this summer, which is troublesome, in light of the General Assembly's threat to cut funding and/or close smaller churches. Myself, I was not aware we were entitled to funding, but perhaps I am being churlish. I am still feeling the loss of Waterford, I suppose. Though, for all that, I suspect the threat of closure rather sounds its death knell. Rev. Hannigan tells me through the grapevine that attendance has dropped right off at little Holy Trinity, Waterford, since the hand-over to Hope Park. He ascribes it all to his newness, I attribute it rather more to the rise in pew rent. In all probability that leak will never be mended and they will make a library or some other, useful thing of the deconsecrated church. I do hope it is useful. There is so much need for utility just presently.

Am I right in thinking your Kingsport contingent will not be visiting this summer? The Fox Corner set are over in Scotland, I know, until the term resumes, and from what I understand, Faith is rushed off her feet at the hospital. The last time I dropped into Larkrise it was to find her out and the Investigateers (Helen and Christopher _still_ inclusive) enthusing about how far a body drifts downstream when dropped into the river. Not very far, is apparently the answer. I said this to Phil, apparently with some perplexity and she proceeded to riddle it out using equations and all sorts, which did not help at all.

But I also learned that Miss Caldicote was with you for the holiday, to which end you must have formed an opinion or three yourself. I should be interested to hear them when you have time. I'm sure it's much more interesting stuff than the Church Census forms.

May you ever be well, do good work, and keep in touch.

Jo

* * *

Ingleside,  
Glen St. Mary,  
August, 1930

Jo,

Not to worry, Nan keeps us regularly in books, and opinions on them. The latest was _Enter the Saint_ , which is nothing like the other mysteries we have had at late, though none the worse for that. Indeed, I understand that Simon Templar has become something of a favourite with her and Jerry. They sit up nights overlooking the lake and read aloud to one another. Also to Miri, who has a taste for the books, though Mandy is more usually found with her legs dangling off a dock fluting her fingers and calling the loons.

 _Nan_ , incidentally, is so taken with Miss Vane that she has threatened to name any future daughters after her, should they materialise. She is also, as Anne pointed out, not so many miles from Nan's Selina Spark. Though, if it comes to that, there has always been a degree of overlap between Lord Peter and Nan's Harrington. It's not lost on the critics, whose most recent review claimed that Nan is doing for Canada what Sayers, Christie and Allingham have done for England. Not necessarily in that order, you understand. To which end, we have every intention on acting on your instructions to requisition the latest Campion from your daughter, should she ever have the time to sit down and read it through.

We have indeed missed the Kingsport Contingent this summer. Jem cannot get furlough before November, by which point it will make more sense to take the Christmas holiday off. Teddy _can,_ and offered to travel down with the children to us, but they, little disloyal scamps hat they are, declined to leave the Carlisles – and also your own wee ones, even to see their grandparents. Helen especially is enjoying having a girl her age to run about with. This in spite of the fact that she and Evie could not be more diametrically opposed if they sat down and thought about it. Last I heard, Evie was trying to teach her to climb trees and failing spectacularly. Give it a year or two, however, and I have every confidence she will have converted Sophy to the cause.

I say all this as if I mind. I don't at all. You've heard me wax anxious about Nan's girls; it would be the height of contradictory to grow indignant at Jem's children being so attached to their friends. Their childhood is so different from mine, Jo, and I don't just mean the murders and playing Investigateers with the adults. They've formed bonds and loyalties I defy any kinship table to keep track of, and when I think about those Avonlea years Before Anne – which really was an era unto itself – I am heart-glad that they know nothing of the kind. I can make do with promises of Christmas and their voices over the telephone if it lessens their portion of tears. Gladly.

Letters from Scotland are, predictably, few and far between, which distresses Susan. I have several times reminded her that they never do write _us_ with any regularity on these trips, and she had much better ring Poppy or one of the girls who pin hopes for news. What little I have gleaned from Larkrise suggests that Iain is as in love with the place as either parent, and Mharie likewise. If I think about it overlong, I worry they won't come back, but then, they always have before. And, of course, they have roots in Kingsport.

We _did,_ however, get a whole six weeks of Rilla's time. She and Ken came down in July and only left last week. It was good to see the little boys running wild through Rainbow Valley, Jims at the helm. He even led them on a fishing expedition, belatedly inviting me to join. I dithered, thinking they might like the time to themselves, but in the end they made such a production of my being included that, of course, I acquiesced, and very glad I was about it too.

Rilla spent a sizeable part of the visit up along the shore road, catching up with Betty, and Anne an equally sizable portion of time worshipping little Sissy. She is the undisputed baby of the Ford family, and very relieved everyone is about it, too. Things are still not back to the way they were, but they're getting there. The young Fords took an evening in Rainbow Valley after the children were packed off to bed, the other day, and I presume that was all to the good. And I think the little boys have even begun to forget the strain of the past few years, though Jims has not.

Speaking of Jims, he wandered into my study the night before they left to ask a word of advice on the subject of universities. He's not applying for a teaching licence, of course, there would be no point, so continues presently at Crescent School. Even so, he's looking ahead and wanted my opinion on subjects and universities. You have no idea how strong the temptation was to tell him not to rush through life. Instead we were very solemn and serious, and batted ideas back and forth. He's leaning towards engineering, and Redmond, I think, is out of the question. Not because it's inferior to Jims's intellect, but because we've put so many generations through the place. So somewhere new it is. I have written to Dr. Christopherson with a mind to recommendations, as he is an Ontario man, and will have ideas of his own.

That lasted all of three quarters of an hour and I was just beginning to mourn the days of the Long-Armed Wailing Monster when Miss Abby came barrelling into the room, determined to elude her bath, and I got to resurrect him. In the end there was nothing for it but to climb into the bath with her. This left me sopping wet, her much delighted, and Anne amused. Needless to say, it was worth it.

Shortly Nan and Jerry are due to come through before moving on to New Brunswick. They will there at Maple Ridge, a name both Anne, Nan and the little girls approve of. Even so, I have every confidence that we shall shortly be hearing Miri has _re_ named it, and probably the house too. Supposing Nan doesn't beat her to it. You can imagine how much we anticipate their visit.

Love ever,

Gil


	19. Chapter 19

Martyrs' Manse,  
Kingsport,  
December, 1930

John,

I am under the mixed impression that I should be writing you with a thank you for your gift of _The Little Engine that Could_ to one Miss Evie. As intended, it has indeed displaced _Dr Fell_ as the recitation of the moment. We are now gently persecuted by declarations of _I think I can, I think I can_ both from Herself and wee Emma. As Phil is wont to say, having found the one bright spot, 'At least it doesn't rhyme!'

Christopher is wild for it too, as are Helen, Sophy and Iain, so _they're_ all chanting the same, and really, it's about now that us at Kingsport would welcome a respite. What are your thoughts about borrowing away your wee ones for a school term? Teddy would never forgive me, but Kitty and the others absolutely would. (Possibly not Mharie. I think she's enjoying not being the youngest for once.)

That, combined with the Trinity House parcel from Singapore contravened what would otherwise have been a much quieter Christmas than normal. I've passed on my thanks already, but you might just reiterate them to Una. I cannot _begin_ to fathom where and how she got hold of so much cane sugar. It is presently being divided among our children, as Phil refuses to waste it on her baking efforts. Even Patty's Place could not progress her much beyond sugar cookies and the occasional cherry cake. The fact that I will walk worlds to reach said cherry cake is apparently besides the point.

There was also a vast quantity of buffalo wool – courtesy of _Papatee_ (sp?), I presume. I know for a fact that a further portion reached Rosemary, and can only wonder what that leaves Li and Una to work with. It's obviously been spun up – well, if Mara is to be believed, and I do – so I can only imagine the work that went into it.

For the rest, Una will be unsurprised to hear, we have portioned out to the Bundle Kirk where it is even now going the rounds. Bruce was round to help the other day, and Miss Caldicote with him – this in spite of our little church having nothing to do with her parish. I quite see what you mean about them making an excellent team. You left out the part about them sharing at the very least a hive mind. I haven't seen two people so reliably able to finish each other's sentences since I last had cause to run across your Mandy and Miri. It's quite remarkable. Equally remarkable is the intake in the donations box this year. It has now been all parcelled up and shortly I will play St. Nicholas and distribute it round the parish. Between knitted goods, and Singaporean tops, there's really a remarkable bounty. I am, as ever, humbled by their generosity.

May the God of hope fill you with joy and understanding though the power of the Holy Spirit this season, and always. And may you ever be well, do good work, and keep in touch.

Jo

* * *

New Manse,  
Glen St. Mary,  
January, 1931

Jo,

Forgive the lack of foresight. All of _ours_ are preoccupied with _Tintin_ , so it never dawned on me that that blue train should so transfix the girls. Rosemary says I might have guessed, given they were ever a fascination with Bruce. At the present moment, however, the Kingsport Contingent are oppressed on all sides by demands for a dog 'just like Snowy.' Faith says Tuesday the Dachshund is more than enough to be getting on with, Mara that Pilgrim wouldn't like it, and Di, who is being likewise hectored from this quarter, that Dulce is exactly the sort of dog other dogs would bully. All of this has but temporary effect, or so the news goes. Over on the Shore Road, Betty is dangerously close to capitulating, and says it is Ingleside's fault, because her boys would never have taken half so much interest in dogs if they hadn't first grown attached to Dulce. Poppy, away in Ontario, who has no children, is, apparently, entirely willing to comply if it will please the little ones. Mara and Faith are forever accusing her of spoiling them, but Poppy only says someone ought to.

In all seriousness, thank you for your gift of _Ash Wednesday._ I am still wrangling it, finding it not so straightforward as the 1927 _Magi._ I expect I will wrestle with it for many years, with that curious weave of verse and ritual and here and there concrete scripture. I fancy Alastair does rather better with it than I yet have, being on surer ground with the theology.

It is almost sinister, and yet, I am struck in the reading of it, by echoes of the things I have seen in my children, and in their confessions to me since the war. _Because I do not hope to turn again_ indeed.

But I am struck most by the end, by the injunction _Teach us to sit still/ Even among the rocks_.* I find, when I think on it, that this is exactly what they have all learned to do in their own way; Jerry among the wilds of Canada, relearning the beauty of our world, Carl in Singapore, beginning again with Li and Una at his side; Jem at the police surgery and Faith finding anew each morning the beauty of God's creation in her patients. I am not so bold as to say that that is the crux of the thing; poetry is Anne's suit and not mine. I would venture though, that that was the line that stamped itself across my brain on first, second and third perusal. No doubt further reading – and there _will_ be further reading – shall yield other results. By and by I shall tell you of them. Presently though, I am off to call Prayer Meeting, the first of the New Year. May it be better than the one so lately flown.

Love and blessings,

J.M.

P.S. Have you read it? How do you get on with those three leopards? They elude all here _completely_.

P.P.S. Rosemary says not to worry over the wool. Li and Una are kept well in fabric from any number of shops in the city centre by way of what Carl earns at Raffles. I don't think there was ever any intention of hoarding the wool for themselves. It would only have gone to the ACS otherwise, and plainly, your need is greater.

* * *

New Manse,  
Glen St Mary,  
January, 1931

Dante! The leopards were _Dante_. Didn't I tell you there would be readings and rereadings? Apt, as it turns out, because all told, there is more of Hell than of Heaven in the poem, title notwithstanding. That was true of Dante too.

But enough of that; I believe I owe you an apology on behalf of my children for the corruption of your Sam's girls. I knew, of course, that Christopher and Helen were inveterate Investigateers at this stage, but had not fully appreciated how deeply it ran, or that it had got into the girls' rope-rhymes, of all things.

I knew nothing about it until Faith rang the other evening and said that Helen and company had been called into the head teacher's office over a rhyme. Naturally I asked what it was, thinking it couldn't possibly be more of _Dr Fell_. That one's irritating, I grant you, but nothing to warrant a ruler over. Somehow I didn't expect her to fire back with _Bitter almonds, run and hide – that's the smell of cyanide!**_ Nor that there were a whole thwack more where that came from. Gil assures me this is Jem's fault, but really, it's hard to lay blame anywhere when they've all been talking murders and mayhem around the children from their cradle. Though they might have seen to it that Evie and Emma were left well out of it!

Here the dairy market continues to plummet, a fact reliably reported by way of the _Glen St Mary Echo_ as of this morning. The paper itself is thriving. Your daughter is a fine hand at news reporting. Kitty got hold of a column when down for the holiday and she said first that she had been wasted on teaching and second that when, inevitably she departed for greener editorial fields, she was taking Naomi with her. I said I thought Di and quite a few others might have a word or two to say against that, not least of all Naomi, who is attached to the Glen. Also you, what with Kitty forever chasing dreams of spired cities and all sorts.

This, as you'll appreciate, is a point of much distress to all at Larkrise. If Jem could tether her to the place, I think he would, and Faith would help him. I'm less sure about Teddy. He makes noises about Kitty being theirs, always, but I think if it came to the point, he'd abet her in her escape.

Elsewhere, Nan and Jerry are now settled comfortably in New Brunswick and mean to stay for a bit. We are all pleased, as this is nearer home than anywhere else they have yet been, and there is talk of them coming for Easter. Possibly. If there are not too many people about. This made Susan harrumph, and I couldn't muster the energy to go against her. Mostly though, it pricks my heart a little. It wasn't only Nan that was ever social. Besides, she could make a community out of a cluster of daffodils. The girls get that from her. Jerry was ever better with flesh-and-blood people. And now – well, no good mourning the past, I suppose. They'll be close enough to visit, and I may yet get to track a milestone or ten as the girls achieve them. That is enough.

Love and blessings,

J.M.

* * *

Martyrs' Manse,  
Kingsport,  
February, 1931

John,

There was no harm done. Phil's favourite is _Smell the scent of new mown hay, 'phosgene gas is on the way._ Honestly, I can't decide if I should be grimly amused, or horrified at the revelation that these are the things said to our boys to get them through the war alive. I gather they came up at all when the body of a stranger was found dead in the Caxley hayloft. I'll spare you the gory details. Suffice it to say he wasn't one of ours, by which I mean native to Kingsport. He didn't seem to be native to anywhere, or even to have a name. Inspector Carlisle worked his way through six at least before stumbling on one he thought might actually be something other than an alias.

When they finally released the body, I took the funeral, and that was as grim as the humour that had attended the investigation. There was no family to claim him, so no money to put up the service. But we made a space for him under the horse chestnut in the graveyard, and Jem came with Faith and Teddy, and the Carlisles. Shirley was there too, and Mara, which surprised me, but then she said afterwards, she had never got to say goodbye to Alec – I make that her brother – when he died, and that made it a bit clearer. It was drizzling, and the ground hard, the air full of the tang of mould and decay where we'd split the earth open. Afterwards Phil insisted they all come back for tea, because that's what you do after a funeral. I hadn't much appetite, and was due for visitations at the prison imminently, but I sat with them a bit and nursed a cup of Ceylon – thank Una for me, won't you? – to remember there was still good in the world. Murder and mayhem too, but also these people trying to do what they could to keep the world turning on its axis. And that's the kind of revelation that ambushes me on occasion and makes all this mission work worth it. Anyway, I'm glad we had a name at least for the dead man. There wasn't any family; I lost a whole day in our records office searching. But he might as well have been scrubbed from existence. Shortly though, there will be a lozenge of a stone under the horse chestnut tree _in memoriam_ , or perhaps I mean _memento mori?_ That must be enough.

If the children have emerged from the ordeal with a novel way of making merry, how can I complain? Laughter, Anne Blythe has oft observed, is as good as a prayer. I wouldn't cheat them of their laughter – though I might just have a word with the girls about the kind of jokes suitable to school.

I knew I was right to send you the Eliot. Best of luck in your further analysis with it; already you have surpassed me in your understanding of it. And keep me abreast of the Food Ministry's progress. Naomi tells me it has become a collaborative effort with Nathan Arnold and the Methodists. What must Cornelia think?

But you, of course continue as ever to be well, do good work, and keep in touch.

Jo

* * *

New Manse,  
Glen St. Mary,  
April, 1931

Bruce came home for Easter far quieter than usual, so of course half the Glen put it down to the usual Eastertide separation from his second pair of eyes. Rosemary _certainly_ does, and said so the other night over the usual hundred strokes prior to plaiting her hair. Probably, some of it _is_ that. It has struck me seeing them together these last few years, that Bruce has never had a sibling his age, and Alice must fill some of that gap for him. He _has_ siblings of course; but Faith and Jerry were both off to school when he was starting the infant's class, and Carl, prior to Li, obviously, never spared much attention for things that weren't bugs. He was closest to Una, and even then she was more auxiliary mother, and now she is in Singapore in any case.

To which end, Bruce has put in for a place at Edward VIII hospital. It abuts Raffles, and is quite famous by Carl's reckoning. He'd stay at Trinity House, if he landed a placement, and do his medical training there. This much I got out of him over a subdued game of backgammon in my study.

Naturally, I had about half-a-dozen objections to this plan, not least and flimsiest that it would leave Martyrs' short a pianist. I never got to the saying of them, because apparently Miss Alice got them in ahead of me, up to and including the piece about the choir. Therein, it turns out, is the crux of the thing. He's keen enough to go – or was – but they've hardly been apart since meeting. Rosemary makes this September of his first year. More to the point, I don't believe they've argued before, or at any rate, not like this. He doesn't appear to be counting academic disagreements over the lab counter.

From what I have pieced together, he was trying to persuade her along with him, and she was adamant there was work to do where they were. She's not wrong, of course, I know from what Faith says that she would welcome a spare pair of hands, but it wasn't for me to take sides. Instead I said he must root out what it was he wanted to do, pin his colours to that particular mast, and chart a course as he could. In the end, I won the backgammon, which _never_ happens, as you know, and Bruce was heard to remark that naval metaphors were more his mother's territory than mine.

I take it from your account of Sam and family's adaptation to Kingsport that your holiday has been altogether less existential. I wonder, what did you decide about Waterford in the end? I know you were thinking of looking in on them; did it come to nothing? And can you shed any light on _Autumn Crocus_? All we have got out of Jem, Faith and Shirley is that Mara is good in it. All _she_ says on the subject is that she still cannot speak German – none of the cast can. This detail aside, Gil is determined to catch it and prove it lives up to reviews, so look for him on your doorstep in the near future.

Love and blessings,

J.M.

* * *

Martyrs' Manse,  
Kingsport,  
April, 1931

John,

I don't pretend to know anything about the argument, but it's obviously made up now, as Sam spotted them leaving Hope Park together on the heels of Miss Caldicote's turn at the flower rota. They were going in the direction of the Science School talking all things experimental, and he didn't understand one word in ten, so neither do I. What _was_ the verdict on Edward VIII? Bruce, obviously is still awaiting an offer, but will it make any difference? Should I be preparing the pitch I must give Ellie to roster her in as new choir director and bracing accordingly for the next glut of choral schism?

You were asking about _Autumn Crocus_. It is tremendously popular. Neither the reviews, nor Larkrise, nor Shirley are exaggerating on that score. I can't vouch for the German, as I never had any to start with, and I haven't liked to ask the boys. As there isn't much of it in the dialogue, I don't suppose it matters.

Incidentally, while Bruce is swithering about where to go next year, Mharie is decidedly coming to Redmond. Something to do with Ancient Languages. This is indirectly your fault, as you happened to pass on your _Boswell and Toller_ to Faith for reasons she is unclear on. Mharie found it some time ago, and lost hours to rootling out words from it instead of minding the children, which she had been summoned to do. All this meant was that she missed Helen's sewing of a suture into Sophy's perfectly intact arm and Christopher's foray into baking. He is going to be a baker, this week, if anyone asks him. Teddy was horrified, Jem surprised, and Faith failed utterly, by her admission, to keep a straight face while prising the stitches out of Sophy. She says that if this is what comes of teaching young girls to perfect needlework, she was right to be against it, and adds that Helen has a career ahead of her as a nurse at the very least. Helen beamed. I think she is making up in spades for Christopher's aversion to all things medical.

The point is, you will shortly have someone to converse with who will know exactly what you are on about when you make allusion to such things as _The Monster Codex, Bede's Ecclesiastical History,_ and _Alexander's Letter to Aristotle_. I will, with apologies, remain woefully at sea where such things are concerned. May you in turn be well, do good work, and keep in touch.

Jo

* * *

Maple Ridge,  
New Brunswick,  
May, 1931

John,

Forgive me, I meant to write you while still at Fox Corner. Somehow, though, we never got the time. Susan had undertaken to give Judith Carlisle a reprieve of the children, having already ignored my advice to stay home, and to that end effectively hoarded young Iain the entirety of the visit. Or she tried to. Judith Carlisle is a formidable personage, the children devoted to her, and none of the Kingsport Contingent insensible to the inadvisability of the journey as far as Susan was concerned.

As you'll have gathered – not having received news of dire portends or anything – we needn't have worried, and Susan is glorying in telling everyone _I told you so._ She has even suffered little Christopher's admonition for not taking care of herself. For a boy who will never be a doctor, he makes a very good one, and not just as Helen's lieutenant in games of Medic.

Jo, by the by, was right about _Autumn Crocus_. We tried, but failed, to get Susan to go with us. As much, I think, for the excuse of an evening with Iain as because of the German in it – though she did have an opinion or six on _that!_ For my part, I took full advantage of the evening out. I cannot remember the last time Anne and I had one properly. Possibly that summer the Charlottetown String Quartet came touring. When would that have been – '26? '27? Too long ago, anyway. She still wears green like a dryad, you know.

We have since settled in for what is looking to be a peaceable fortnight at Corvedale, which is the name Miri has given the Maple Ridge House. Susan has had a far easier time invading its kitchen than she had up at Fox Corner, and is presently deep in the throes of righting it. She was horrified to stumble into it and find crockery and brushes all intermingled, turpentine and beeswax blending. She's convinced the aroma is unhealthy and will do the little girls some injury. Arguments from differing quarters that it hasn't _yet_ went disregarded. I expect nothing less.

The girls in question, this doctor is happy to report, are every bit as normal as when we last had cause to see them. Mandy is still half woodnymph, and can mostly be found lying on her stomach up in the crown of birches, sketching the inhabitants. She has names for all of them – the trees as well as the creatures – and condescended yesterday afternoon to confide these in Anne. Miri is much more _present_ , for lack of a better word, and does the chattering of two girls, and also Jerry. Though, having said that, he and I lost an amicable hour to a chess game in which I emerged with dignity but no pieces to speak of.

With any luck I manage to catch you before you take Rosemary up to Bruce's graduation and we can have a good news-wrangle in person. Until then, keep an eye out for my letters, and Anne's likewise. Though the odds are you'll have to wait pictures until I've had Di develop them for me.

Love ever,

Gil

* * *

 _* From Ash Wednesday by T.S. Eliot. And for those keeping track at home, the earlier poem of 1927 eluded to is Journey of the Magi. Fun, irrelevant trivia; Faber and Faber wanted Journey of the Magi for a line of Christmas cards. Go read it with this in mind and come back to me with nominations for the best line to stick on this year's greetings cards._

 _**With apologies to The Doctor Blake Mysteries for this and the subsequent rhyme._

 _***Also worth elaboration here is Autumn Crocus_ _, the play that made Dodie Smith a household name. It revolves around a romance in the Alps - hence the odd bit of German dialogue. While it probably didn't get to Canada until Dodie and Alec Beazley crossed the Atlantic in the '40s, I'm being flexible with time here. As with all her writing, the play is worth it._


	20. Chapter 20

_With thanks ever to all reading and/or reviewing._

 _This instalment of letters comes with a content warning for the mention (in passing) of home abortion. Skim the last of Jo's letters if that sort of thing is likely to cause upset._

* * *

New Manse,  
Glen St. Mary,  
June, 1931

Jo,

Lovely to have caught you over the graduation season. I did look for you on stage as Bruce and the others were crossing it, and recalled only belatedly that you were not acting university chaplain. I did find the man in question though, after the service, or rather, he found me. A Rev Hannigan, who I think you have sometimes mentioned in connection with Hope Park. We fell into an – unintentionally – lengthy discourse on the merits of faith versus works. Consequently I lost Rosemary and Bruce somewhere along the way, and when I next looked over, Bruce had been absorbed into a circle of friends and Rosemary was talking with what I make the mother of the much-discussed Miss Caldicote. You had neglected to tell me quite how _English_ the family was. When I caught them up at last the conversation was something about china patterns. Una, no doubt, could have contributed meaningfully. I nodded where it made sense.

We joined with the family for dinner – this at one of the eateries on the High, and thereafter retired to St Regulus Hall, where Bruce offered us tea. I think this was really an excuse to tell us he'd had a firm offer from Edward VII hospital, over in Singapore. It abuts Raffles College, is supposed to be remarkably good, and has fascinated him ever since Carl let slip about its reputation.

This wouldn't be mission work, of course, but for medical training. Carl thinks it an excellent idea, and Una endorses it. I'd mind, except that in addition to the tea at St Regulus (Red Rose and teabag as I gather its easier come by presently – Una really does spoil us sending leaves) he wanted to tell us he'd declined the offer. I'm not sure who was more surprised, myself on hearing the news, or Gil when I relayed it to him in person. We'd been resigning ourselves for months to his going abroad, and had been making allowances ever since. Anyway, it's not to happen now.

Miss Caldicote has won that particular argument, and I'd worry if Bruce weren't such an open book. He's really no better than Faith for telling an untruth. As it was, he sat on the bed – he had generously given Rosemary and I loan of the room's two resident chairs – and radiated contentment as the sun does light. Perhaps you can offer insight? Rosemary tried to play inquisitor again, but was blocked on every front. He and Miss Caldicote are absolutely _not_ courting, and there is an end on the subject.

Gil, who had hitherto worried about being shorthanded for the foreseeable future, now worries Bruce is throwing away an opportunity. Selfishly, I am glad, though Una and Carl will be sorry to lose his visit. I must see about taking him along, as and when that sabbatical transpires. It's the least I can do; I know Una misses him keenly.

It does, however, guarantee you and Martyrs' a pianist and choir director for the next three years at least. Tell Ellie she is off the hook, and no need to fear another choral schism. It strikes me that if he can be persuaded out of the Singapore expedition, he may well be persuaded into staying in Kingsport. He wouldn't be the first of my children to develop an affinity for the place.

Here, your daughter has finished alterations to the old Bryant house, and has made quite the home of it. Cornelia is aggrieved, because it is no longer green, save for trim around the window boxes. Instead, Fred Arnold has done it up in a dove grey that will weather well, and laid flags over the front walk for ease of access. Gil has been heard to observe _sotto voce_ that it looks much more the property of a kindred spirit now, but less like Cornelia's home. He is not wrong. I was over the other day and treated to a modest but welcome tea of scones and Ceylon in red ceramic. I have still not quite mastered the art of tea bowls, though Joanie is more than adept at them, especially when it comes to submerging scones in tea.

More worrisomely, Susan's attacks, which had seemed to have abated, have suddenly reappeared. As Gil says, this fairly guarantees a visit from all at Fox Corner come summer, but that's about the only silver lining discernible. He makes it a matter of years – possibly less – before we lose Susan at this rate, and you can be sure when that day comes there will be wailing and gnashing of teeth. Here's to the greatest of our troubles continuing to be the quandry of how to dip scones into Chinese teabowls for many moons yet.

Love and blessings,

J.M.

* * *

Ingleside,  
Glen St. Mary,  
July, 1931

Jo,

Forgive my poor correspondence of late. It hasn't been a good summer, rather a busy one in fact. It began with Betty's eldest boy coming down with what I made a summer cold. Then it became a fever, and by and by he complained of a stiff back. Found moving difficult, all that sort of thing. Well, that set off about ten alarm bells at least. Except by then Hal Taylor's nephew was showing the same symptoms, and Ned Burr's son too. Cormac McAllister called on me a week later to say two of his children were in bed, headachey and overtired, not eating much, and I began to have horrible flashbacks to 1918 and the 'flu that went round. It isn't that though. I'd know that anywhere; it nearly killed Di. I'm not likely to forget it; the roses on her cheeks, the mucous rale in her lungs. I still see it, some evenings, when I close my eyes. See too Mara pleading and intractable at Poppy's bedside. No, this is something else, and just about the only thing the children have in common is a propensity for swimming in the creek out behind the Taylor farm. Sam and the others will remember. There's a rock pool that grows deep by inches; perfect for wading and swimming. Only we at Ingleside have put a moratorium on it this summer. I've had just about enough of near-misses with our own. I'd make it a law of the village, but I can't enforce it and after all that faffing about counting and recounting the votes last election, I can't face going toe to toe with the council again so soon.

Bruce is proving a remarkable help. He reminds me of myself at that age, so full of theory and half-wild for experience. He'll have it soon enough, and then I suppose he'll wish he hadn't. Isn't it always the way? Anyway, whatever John tells you, colour me enormously relieved to have him on hand. Singapore isn't going anywhere and I've needed him this summer. Miss Caldicote has my everlasting gratitude for talking him out of adventure and can demand what recompense she will. Anything else I said was purely Devil's Advocate, as I always have loved a debate, and also felt someone ought to play the part.

Keep well, Jo, all of you. If I can't influence the Glen, let me at least persuade you to talk your lot out of wading this summer. I hate to think of them falling in harm's way.

Love ever,

Gil

* * *

New Manse,  
Glen St Mary,  
August, 1931

Jo,

Rosemary is finally over her brush with pneumonia, and to that end we held a farewell supper for Bruce.

Weather being mild, we scandalised Susan by setting up card tables on the veranda and eating outside, using Chinese lanterns to deflect the worst of the midges. (It didn't work; I've counted half a dozen new bites at least since retreating to the study – but then, I always was popular with wee biting beasties.) To save Rosemary on the cooking, the Inglesideans came armed with one of Di's chicken salads, scotch eggs and a trifle, while Rilla deigned to carry a cake up to the house and Naomi a fish platter. Ideal summer food. Fred Arnold found and relocated the Victrola from the parlour and set it going, which in turn set the children dancing when especially choice selections came on. _In Appleblossom Time_ was a favourite, as was _Make Believe._ Other things too, I'm sure, but they do such wild theme and variation with the music now that I've quite lost track.

(An aside; Rosemary assures me it isn't half so improvised as players now let on. I'm forced to take her word for it, music being a divine mystery I am unlikely to parse.)

We sat outside until the fireflies came out, and the stars were high, and the air thick with the smoke of the guttering candles. Ken and Rilla put the rest of us quite to shame, dancing in time to the music, and that proved contagious among the young people. When the midges became too much and the crickets incessant, we older people left them to their fun and fell to Whist in the security of the parlour.

It's the sort of thing we would have done in another life, what we used to do, in fact, before sending the children off to university, even down to the music and lanterns. What Gil makes poliomyelitis seems to have abated for the time being, which means he was able to come up for air, and what with the Fords -both sets – being down for the last gasp of summer, it seemed the perfect opportunity. Di and Alastair brought the children, Rilla likewise, and they proceeded to run riot with Joanie through the valley, while we kept half an ear out for signs of misadventure. There was only the new-hung bells from the tree lovers courtesy of Jims, the Victrola crooning away, and a good deal of laughter. The mothers doled out remember-whens between dances, while Naomi waxed reminiscent about Singapore. Fred Arnold was eager to know how Bruce had picked up what he judged to be passable Cantonese from mere correspondence, when neither he nor Naomi could make headway whilst _living_ abroad, adding that it's a shame Bruce won't be going that way after all. None of us had a passable answer to that one, Bruce least of all, who shrugged in a way reminiscent of Una and deflected the conversation to Dulce's latest misadventure – namely, the stealing of a leg of mutton from behind the butcher counter. You will be unsurprised when I tell you it ended with the butcher - Nate McAllister - trying to deflect Alastair's attempts at payment. Not only Ingleside would spoil that dog.

I've missed this, Jo, the levity and the laughter. After weeks of being worried for Rosemary, of burying children, and wrangling as best I can with Bruce's packing, while swithering about how much to let on to Carl and Una, it was good to sit back among friends and be giddy and glad for an evening. Tomorrow we will go with Bruce to the train, and I suppose then I'll think of how far the distance and how long the separation. On the other hand, I've got to be rather good at bearing such things, have in fact, become quite the expert at preventing distance from intervening.

Did I tell you I spoke the other evening to Jerry over the 'phone and heard all about his plans to take the family out west? At least, I did until Mandy commandeered the mouthpiece and proceeded to talk my ear off at nineteen words to the dozen. All about the wildlife they were sure to encounter and the pictures she was going to send me. A hard time I had not laughing. At some point Nan got control of the telephone from both of them and promised to keep them healthy, happy and well, with Miri's help. That made laughter even harder; by all accounts she and Miri sit elbow-to-elbow at the kitchen table and lose days to writing. Jerry's become quite the expert at improvising lunches for himself and Mandy.

What I _did_ glean from the all-hands-around conversation is that Jerry's been inspired by _Indian Church_ that's made such acclaim, and is accordingly packing the lot of them off to Vancouver when the opportunity presents itself. I know nothing about the place except that further afield there are mountains, and bears (this last courtesy of a positively gleeful Mandy), and enough sea to help everyone feel at home. I came away feeling _excited_ on their behalf – and you know I've never cared to travel.

On which note, we're sending Bruce back up to you tomorrow. I'd ask you to keep us abreast of his affairs, but I know for a fact that you and at least three others will undertake the effort on his behalf. I hazard a guess he's even looking forward to it. Sorry, of course, to leave Gil with his hands full, but keen to get back to the life he has over there, too. Isn't that always the way?

Love and blessings,

J.M.

* * *

Marytrs' Manse,  
Kingsport,  
August, 1931

John,

Very glad we are to have Bruce back, I can tell you! The interim choir director was not popular at all. The days of the Handel-induced Schism are as _nothing_ set next to Richard West's propensity for _hymns in unison_. Can you imagine? No, neither can I. But perhaps Rosemary can explain the egregiousness to both of us. I seem to remember her once explaining in detail to me all the attendant faults of the metric psalm. Do not let on that I have long since misplaced what these are exactly. Definitely do not let on that metric psalms are a staple at Martyrs'. Anyway, Bruce is settled, we are back to four-part harmony on the even verses only, and very glad everyone is about it too. Apparently our sopranos have missed their descants.

I might, incidentally, be able to settle the question of the Cantonese. You'll forgive me not having done so before; I hadn't realised it was a question. It's quite common knowledge among the Kingsport Contingent that your Bruce is the favourite doctor of the Chinatown community, being the promptest of the doctors to respond to their calls. Indeed, I hazard a guess he is the _only_ doctor, aspiring or otherwise, to give them much notice. It would not surprise me at all if he's agreed to be on the receiving end of linguistics lessons in return for house-calls. He's sensible enough of the rarity that is money not to demand it of people who haven't got it, and I don't need to tell you his fascination with the language. (He assured me in previous conversations that it _was_ a language and not a dialect, having as many variations as there are varieties of Chinese.) I suppose Li will be the deciding vote as to his accuracy in speaking it, as and when they meet.

I gather that in his absence, Jem was summoned to examine a handful of bodies from that quarter, and he makes all of them preventable deaths. Blood loss, dehydration, and a terrible accident involving a pair of knitting needles that does not warrant elaboration. Faith is, predictably, furious that between the hospital, her Sunday clinics at Martyrs', and the children she can't give the community due attention. She's all tied up with surgery hours and house calls, and I gather no one sends these emergencies her way. This will be, I gather, the point by which Miss Caldicote carried her argument about there being vital work here as well as abroad. Alice, being only in training as a nurse, can't do much herself, though she did her best to stem the gap this summer, the knitting needle episode being quite the last straw. I gather from your letters that Bruce, left to his own devices, is now at quite the loss. Without knowing much of her, I hazard the same is true of Miss Alice Caldicote.

In parochial news, I have lost Elie. Church census numbers have condemned it and shortly Knox-on-the-sea is to be converted to council estate housing. I am trying not to mourn it. Undeniably the houses are necessary – now more than ever. Too often lately, have I taken to leaving Knox's doors open of an evening to shelter the people that need it, and even I concede that is far from ideal. Still, it leaves me with an ache to think of that weather-beaten church gone, its crooked steeple dismantled. It was more chapel than church, barely able to accommodate 30 or 40 together, but it was still the hub of that little village. Most fisheries, you know, place their church like a spoke in the centre of town, but Knox was, as it's full name suggests, on the harbour front, and the smell of fish drying in the sun came drifting through the open doors in bygone Sundays. Could anything be more apt for the house of God? It always made me think of John 21:1-14. Could anything be more human than Christ's preparation of those fish over an open fire? And how often did we adjourn to just such a feast?

Still, other needs are greater. They will deconsecrate the church in September, and thereafter tear it down and start on what I reckon will be row houses. They will sell the stained glass, I suppose, or perhaps send it on to Yarmouth to be hung in memory of a bygone age. I hope they do. And if not, I hope the money from the glass goes towards something worthwhile. Sturdy foundations, or solid roofs or something.

I'm not exactly clear where that leaves the people of Elie churchwise. Yarmouth isn't so close as to make for an easy Sunday journey, and even if it were, I'm not convinced my congregants could run to the admittance tariff. To that end I will do what I can for them – without stepping on toes, of course. No one likes to feel the former minister is grasping still for control. But I have friends there, and promises to keep. The occasional supper in the town hall, or perhaps a carol sing at Christmas, can't hurt too many feelings. What do you think?

Be well, do good work, and keep in touch,

Jo

* * *

Ingleside,  
Glen St Mary,  
Sept, 1931

Jo,

Further to your last letter, I have acquired Miss Caldicote's address from Faith. I fear I cannot, in good conscience, recommend anything that would prevent against the further misapplication of knitting needles. Niether, I think can Bruce intervene there for much the same reasons. I can, however, think of someone with means and knowledge to do exactly that, and have accordingly redirected Miss Caldicote's attention to that quarter. I will say only that it was a stupidly preventable death. Blood loss, more than anything else, I shouldn't wonder. Someone ought to have a stern word with the hospital about its response times to distress calls – always supposing Faith hasn't already, of course.

Betty's eldest is indeed over the worst of the summer illness, and has even dodged the paralysis I anticipated, so that is too the good. So did Mary's lad, but Hal's nephew was less lucky, and I have seen several similar outcomes up at Four Winds. I have my theories, but it's far too early to confirm anything, my sample being altogether too small.

No doubt you will have heard by now from John of Rosemary's recovery. I tell her frequently that she is far and away my favourite patient to call in on, being entirely more tractable than the others. I don't know how much of that owes to the instructions Bruce left her with and how much to the pneumonia, which was quite a bad enough strain. At the present time, your daughter and mine alternate in running hot meals up to the Manse when work at the paper wraps up. From what I can tell, Naomi's visits generally turn into communiques on the ACS and the news from that quarter, and as this can be done without much exertion on anyone's part, and to the general increase of everyone's well-being, I have no complaints.

We at Ingleside continue well. We sent Rilla and family back to Toronto the other day, and there were tears all round. Most of them from Anne and myself, as the boys were quite keen to start with classes again. Anthony has been promised music lessons this term, and it is all he can talk about. I thought about warning Rilla that she would regret this measure when the house on Maple St re-echoed with childish playing, but Anne talked me out of it, and in all probability she was right. Liam, meanwhile, is longing to get back and pester Auntie Cass about the latest in indexing. Her particular academic is just returned from Nigeria or some such and he's hungry for the attendant stories. Personally, I give them a week before the thrill of returning to school and the smell of new books has lost its lustre. But perhaps I do them an injustice.

There's almost certainly more, but I owe Fox Corner a letter and it wants writing this side of suppertime. Love ever to you and yours,

Gil

* * *

 _The famous polio epidemic doesn't properly get underway until 1937. Records, however, have it spiking all through the summers of the preceding years. One gets the sense it was a bit of a medical hydra until the vaccine came into play, with 1937 standing out as an especially bad year._

 _Finally, my apologies to anyone who, like myself, read_ The Jade Peony _and surmised that was the last they'd ever see of the misapplication of knitting needles. I too thought this was the case. Apparently not._


	21. Chapter 21

_With thanks to those of you reading and/or reviewing._

* * *

New Manse,  
Glen St. Mary,  
Sept. 1931

Jo,

A letter from Una arrived this morning as if in answer to prayer. Ever since the war it has been a point of pride with our paper, whether it haled from Lowbridge or the Glen proper, to trade in international news. Imagine my unease then, when I picked ours up this morning to find the headline above the fold ran simply _Japanese Overtake Manchuria_. A little thing, only now I can't help wondering how long before they're in Singapore. It's not impossible. Carl and Una both must know it isn't impossible. None of this is a comfort. Since reading it – _Japanese Overtake Manchuria –_ I have drafted any number of petitions to them to come home, to be safe, to take Li and come on the next boat…Then I think of Akela, Nenni, the buffalo they are calling _Papatee_ (I gather this means 'butterfly', of all the absurd endearments), of mischief-loving Puck, Una at the school, Carl at the university and the lives they have forged for themselves. And I wonder if I could be so selfish as to demand that sacrifice of them. When I recall Una as she was in the days after the war, no, more nearly after Courcelette, and compare her against the woman she has grown into, I find I cannot do I look back at the newspaper, at _Japanese Overtake Manchuria,_ in heavy typeset, and think I _must_ do it – that I will never forgive myself if now, of all times, I break that age-old promise to her mother and let her fall into chaos and confusion.

I am meant to be drafting a sermon tying together next week's lectionary, and all I can think is how terribly apt it is. I look at the vesicle from _Esther_ and think all too ready I am to give my life for theirs, should the need arise, at Psalm 124 and trust and pray that God is, as ever, on our side in this. But I cannot preach that from the pulpit. It would never do.

I had thought I had had my trial by fire, oh, any number of times over. When that shell at Verdun hit Jerry. When Carl went to war, and then Jerry was nearly killed – when Carl lost his eye. Never mind Faith rushing headfirst into the fray to do what she could. All of it seemed unbearable, but I took it as the seasoning and salt it was, and thought I had come through the other side. I never blanched when Una talked of going overseas, of _living_ there, because I could see the purpose it gave her. And selfishly, stupidly, I trusted that this other war would never touch my children. How could it, this thing in the Pacific, have aught to do with my good-hearted, _Canadian_ children? Now I see the error in that logic, and worry over them and the people they love. I cannot write and order them home, but neither can I sit idly by here. Write and advise me something, Jo. If only on the construction of next Sunday's sermon.

And if you cannot do that, write and keep me abreast of how little Elie fairs. It will be less it's church now, am I right? If so, know I am sorry for it. I know it was beloved of you, and the community will be lesser your involvement there.

Thinking of you, and all my gratitude, love and blessings,

J.M.

* * *

Martyrs' Manse,  
Kingsport,  
Sept. 1931

John,

I have wrangled detailed particulars on the subject from Kitty, who is preternaturally well-informed on foreign affairs. It has long been Faith's opinion that she is wasted on the police beat, and I begin to think Faith is right. The thing that has the desks talking, as far as I can tell, is the way they have seized the South Manchurian Railway. Kitty reckons this at 730 miles, which seems a vast distance. But the Japanese also seem sufficiently preoccupied in maintaining their hold on it, that I think for the time being you can lay your troubles to bed. Or rest better in the knowledge Naomi shares them, I don't know. _She_ , at any rate, has left off her run of the Glen news section to do what you have hitherto refrained from doing and written to urge Una and Carl home. Li too, it should go without saying. She doesn't think it will avail her anything, but she says that at least she can feel she has _done_ it now. Know, whatever happens, they are all in my prayers, and the children's prayers, these spanning the usual multiplicity of parishes. It is a small thing, but the best I can do.

You asked after Elie. It is indeed adrift. I cycled into town the other day to see how it was getting on, and found my former church half-pulled down and a vast quantity of dry wood amassed at its foundation. I am unconvinced that this will weather well in after-years, but I concede that it is considerably less expensive than other options.

Correspondence with the minister in charge of Yarmouth parish has, however, yielded me permission to continue the weekly food ministry in the town hall, and that lessens the sting a little. It provides a ready way of keeping in touch with old friends, and of helping them through the current crisis too. Strange to think, really, that it was not even ten years ago I acquired Elie. Sam reminded me of this the other day over Sunday dinner, and I frankly admit that I did not believe him until he and Phil counted the years off on their fingers. In my defence, Ellie was equally shocked. Ellie is very good about taking my side when it seems the others are making a team against me. So are the little girls, Emma especially. She still has her lisp, by the by, and Evie takes every opportunity to tease her, especially since little Nell's words are starting to come in, and her esses are likewise confused.

But they are making good progress; Fox Corner gifted Emma a copy of _A Child's Garden of Verses_ at her last birthday, and it has displaced even _The Little Engine that Could_ in popular reading material. We are all very relieved. Emma adores the rhymes, and Evie the pictures – there really are some lovely ones, even to my untrained eye.

Elsewhere I content myself with giving my full attention to Martyrs'. It has been a long time since I had a single church in my care, and it is almost a new feeling, being able to devote so much time to it. I may yet find time to start up that study group you once recommended after all.

Give my best to Rosemary – we were glad to hear of her recovery here. And may you ever be well, do good work, and keep in touch.

Jo

* * *

New Manse,  
Glen St Mary,  
Nov. 1931,

Jo,

Worse and worse. They have gone from repairing the Nen River Bridge to sending forces against the acting governor of Heilongjiang province. There's a joke buried somewhere in here about how never before have I been so current in my foreign affairs, but you'll forgive me if I fail to see it. Somehow, in spite of the loss of the bridge, China has made a hero of its general. He'll be their Byrtnorth, I suppose – rallying moral, even in the face of catastrophe. And here I thought only the English could write a poem about a loss. Forgive me, here I am presupposing your familiarity with _The Battle of Maldon_. But it really wasn't your subject, was it, Old English? I cling to it; _minds must be firmer, hearts keener, courage must be greater as our might fails_ indeed. Anyway, I'm still stuck on the ease with which Japanese armoured trains have got over the border.

Naomi, who knows the geography in question rather better than I do, has tried to be reassuring on the subject, but has not much succeeded. She chews her lower lip when nervous – I suppose you know this – and has worried it almost to bleeding of late. Fred Arnold does a rather better job of bolstering us, but only, I sometimes think, because he has lived his share of horrors much nearer home than the ones unravelling in China. But they know this place, they have people over there, and I am keenly aware how much worse their anxiety must be because of it. Days do not go by, of late, but we sit together in council, agonising over what to do. I have told your daughter a hundred times over at least how grateful I am to her in the writing of that letter. I do not much think Una will listen, nor Carl either, but I am easier at it having been done.

There are many things that frighten me in all of this; what a Japanese Singapore would look like, should they ever get there, what the ramifications would be for my children not least of these. But the one that has me lying awake of late has been the potential fall-out for Li. I forget now how long Japan and China have been circling each other as cats with claws drawn, but the ramifications for Chinatown must surely be worse than on the rest of the city, should they get hold of it. It is bad enough the way the locals skirt the Japanese stores _now._ If they were ever to infiltrate more fully…And then I wonder what that would mean for Carl, who would never leave her – what I should do if anything happened to any of them. I should have gone over when I first thought of it, Jo, you were right. Now I wonder if I shall get the chance.

Write glad things, Jo. You must have an Advent Appeal running for your parishes, such as are left to you. Are the children coming down for the holidays? What of Larkrise? We missed the Fox Corner lot in the summer for their foray back to Scotland, but you must have more recent news of them. And what, dare I ask, are Kitty's opinions on the whole episode?

Love and blessings,

J.M.

* * *

New Manse,  
Glen St Mary,  
Nov. 1931

They have surrendered Tsitshar and I am heartsick. I can pronounce hardly any of these places, Jo, and yet they have suddenly taken on terrifying importance. Bruce and I have more than once exceeded the statutory three minute rule trying to parse the meaning of what has happened. He doesn't _think_ the Japanese will get across the mainland. I refrained from pointing out that it wasn't so long ago we sent his brothers to do battle in a war that was supposed to be over by Christmas, 1914. Anything might happen. I further refrained from saying how glad I was he was only in Kingsport. I owe Miss Caldicote far more than I ever supposed. May she be his second pair of eyes always, in whatever capacity she chooses.

For the time being though, Una writes that she and all at Trinity House are well. What she calls Sumatra Squalls were few and far between, this October, and what there were were effectively staved off by mock-turtle soup. Carl, meanwhile, has been busy putting together an exhibition of birds and mammals for the Raffles Museum. This means that any number of half-mummified and petrified things find their way back to Trinity House and invade Carl's desk. Una often finds them while housekeeping, or else finds Li sketching them. Nenni has offered several contributions, but these have all been rejected as inadmissible. Una would scold her it will be the day after Never before Una scolds that cat for anything, and besides, Li enjoys making sketches of the results. She has taken to sending these on to Mandy, a sort of reciprocation, I think, for the sketches she sends to Carl.

I'm tolerably sure Una tells me all of this to stem my concern for their well-being, and do not mind. It is working. She adds that the city is well-fortified. The British are looking after their own, as ever. There is a navy, and an air force awaiting deployment should the need arise. She is confident it will not.

More locally, your little Joanie and her mother kept me well in news. Up at Four Winds, Ned Burr has taken over the upkeep of the lighthouse, Sadie Agnew's hens have stopped laying, and what was the old Moore house is being sold to Alastair's firm. It will be torn down and rebuilt, into what and for whom Naomi couldn't say. Fred thinks it will become a guest house, guests and their origins as yet undetermined. All of this rather pales next to Joanie's news that she is to be a sister, which I ought to have led with, but took the liberty of supposing you knew in any case. I did not, and now Rosemary, Susan, and Cornelia are all in a frenzy of piecing a baby quilt. I gather every child ought to have its own. It is also a point of great pride with Cornelia that she can still lay out a quilt top, even if she can no longer stitch it. Anne tells me the pattern is Sunbonnet Sue – just about the only block I can recognise at a glance. Anne is for making each block different, while Susan would have them uniform. Cornelia only cares that they are symmetrical, and Rosemary is trying to keep peace without offering an opinion herself. (She does have one; she has _never_ liked Sunbonnet Sue.) Disagreements over piecing notwithstanding, however, Cornelia is delighted that her former home is to be fuller. She says it was always meant for more than the three people that rattled around in it. Even if it is no longer green. That still rankles, evidently.

Anyway, they're in good company, as I believe Ingleside is due another baby come the summer. Hector is nonplussed, feeling, I suppose, he has lived that particular ordeal already, but Miss Abby is terribly excited. So is Dulce, but that is nothing new. She actually succeeded at catching a squirrel the other day and was so stunned by the success that she dropped it. The squirrel, still very much alive, scurried up the nearest aspen, from which vantage point it chattered at poor Dulce, who could only stare heavenward with the widest eyes in Christendom. Hector and Gil thought it a terrific laugh. Di took the opportunity to say _I told you so_ on my behalf. There is no making a hunting dog of Dulce, not this side of never anyway.

Love and blessings,

J.M.

* * *

Martyrs' Manse,  
Kingsport,  
Nov, 1931

John,

In the event Bruce hasn't told you, we at Martyrs' are in chaos over the Christmas pageant. There had been some talk of not having one this year, but the children of the parish rioted and poor Miss Thompson, who takes the Sunday School had to turn around and submit an outline for one to the Secretariat in no time at all. Everyone is eager for a part, the little girls especially. All I have heard decided is that Sophy and Nell are to be lambs.

Kitty thinks, incidentally, that the Japanese will have their hands full managing the territory they have got, what with the increase in volunteers to the resistance army. I hope and pray that goes some way to easing your concern on that score. Kitty, generally speaking, is right in these things, or so I have learned. It is part of why her editor is so loathe to let her go.

You asked for glad news though. You have had mine; trust Joanie to have got in ahead of me with the announcement. She beat her mother to the telling of me too, so that is nothing new. In more novel revelations, Teddy has managed to coax Kitty into attendance of the Station House Christmas function at the end of this week. No one can work out what he said to do it, as Kitty _hates_ functions, though we've all fairly tried. Helen is wildly excited about it, and bolted school early the other day in the interests of taking Kitty to the shops. It came to nothing; the last I heard, Mara was sewing up a new frock for Kitty, her previous 'good dress' being no longer serviceable. This came from Faith, who was lamenting her inability to sew, even as she said in more or less the same breath that the last time she'd sewn anyone anything, it had been hospital necessaries during the war. You should have seen Helen's eyes at that! Judith and Mara are making quite the polished seamstress of that one. To Faith's bemusement, Helen enjoys it, and loses whole afternoons to placidly aligning satin stitch on samplers. It's got so that she's begun to say the stork meant the darling girl for Una but brought her to Larkrise instead. Gil agrees, reckoning Helen entirely too calm for a daughter of Jem and Faith. So's Christopher, if it comes to that, though I blame Teddy and Toby Carlisle on that score. The boy is desperate for their admiration and trying to act their age at nine. (He's still not going to be a doctor though. This week he told me very solemnly he was going to be a shepherd like King David. I gather last week's ambition to be a gardener was rather quashed when Jem seized upon it to talk him into shovelling the walkway.)

Thinking of you and yours. Do keep me posted as regarding our foreign correspondents. And be sure to pass on my thanks to Una for her gift of a Christmas parcel. She will have had my letter already, but it was full of such necessities for our people that it cannot go understated.

Be well, do good work, and keep in touch,

Jo

* * *

Ingleside,  
Glen St. Mary,  
January, 1932

Jo,

You have outdone yourself this year. Thank you, in the first instance, for the inclusion of Kitty's piece on the Lapsly murder, and also the pictures of that Christmas function they were all preoccupied with. I _wish_ I could tell you what Teddy did to get our resident journalist there, but am quite as stumped on that score as anyone else. This in spite of Anne's many and varied attempts to coax the story from Kitty. If she can't do it, no one can. Faith came closest, I think, with the suggestion that there was a story in it for Kitty. Specifically that front page spread appended to your last letter. As to why Teddy should have felt the need to punch that poor constable in the nose – well, that's really anyone's guess. All Teddy would say on the subject was that the gentleman in question had earned it. He had a look about him in the saying of it that put me in mind of Walter the day he fought Dan Reese, and to that end I decided against pressing for details.

Other news included a detailed recapitulation of the Martyrs' Christmas Pageant and Helen's role as Mary, a detail which had Miss Abby in much awe of her. There was much worship of Dulce by Iain, who is still angling for a dog in the vein of Snowy and still being denied, to Susan's dismay. Never did I think the day would come when Susan championed the bringing of dogs into the home. She wouldn't have let in _Dulce_ if sheer numbers hadn't gone against her. But I really believe she would give that boy the moon if he asked for it. Certainly she would do her level best to try.

Christopher was telling anyone who would listen about the success his father and also his uncle – he meant Geordie Carlisle – had met with in the solving of the Lapsly murder. Anne, Rosemary, John and I did our best to pretend we had not read Kitty's piece on the same, while Miri was genuinely rapt, having not seen anything but the Maple Ridge weekly ever since settling there.

About which; I still cannot get used to having Nan and family close enough to visit. This makes the third time this year, and while it cannot last – there is now a date set for the move to Vancouver – I can enjoy it while it does. Nan sat down at our upright as if she had grown there and coaxed Forest Green from the keys, and the little girls took it upon themselves to teach Di's children the best way to decorate pine cones. They each have their favourites. Mandy favours sturdy, quiet Hector, who is more than agreeable about her becoming his hands when crafting demands it necessary, while Miri is devoted to little Abby. They chatter and chase each other round the house like sparrows. There is something especially heartening about the spectacle of Mandy and Hector twinging holly and bay around the railings while singing lusty renditions of _The Twelve Days of Christmas._ They lost the words somewhere around day eight and collapsed on the stairs laughing amidst the greenery. Indeed, I safely bet that I will never grow tired of seeing Nan and Di's children entwined. It brings back a taste of the old days, I suppose, when the Ingleside Twins had the run of the place with their secrets and schemes and dreams.

Rilla and Ken were there with the children, of course, and almost back on what Anne called wartime footing. Sissy is at that trying age where she thinks that as long as you can't _see_ the mischief enacted, she can carry it off, and that, more than anything, seems to have drawn them back together. I think the little boys have even begun to forget there was ever a gulf there. Jims has not, and spent much effort filling conversational lacunae with stories of McGill. And later, after Susan and Di had laid out a Christmas feast for the ages, and the parcels had been distributed, he joined with Shirley, Alastair and I in the assembling of a Lionel Electric Train set for Anthony. Really, I think it was of far more interest to us, being, as we were, determined not to be defeated by the instructions. We were, and so had to affect to be exceedingly indignant when Bruce Meredith had the whole lot sorted in ten minutes flat. Anthony never noticed. He was more interested in persuading Rosemary to teach him _Sleepers Awake_. A solid half hour later they compromised on _We Wish You a Merry Christmas,_ Sissy having taken over the train set. The doll intended for Sissy fell into the hands of little Abby, and as of the writing of this letter, has not yet been missed or asked for by the rightful owner.

Poppy too, had travelled down for the occasion, and that put paid to any hopes the rest of us might have cherished of having more than half a conversation with any one of the girls who pin hopes all this holiday. I'm reminded of our first Kingsport Christmas at Larkrise, the way Peter turned to Shirley and said without a hint of regret or apology, 'That's us well and truly surplus to requirements.' Truer words Jo, were never spoken. The girls make a kind of knot when they're together. It's like watching magnets converge or something. Even the grandchildren know better than to try and intervene. Consequently, all I know about the current run of _Private Lives_ at the Crown Imperial, comes from young Iain, who has heard the script enough to quote whole sections at me. Anne did rather better, pinning down Nan long enough to prise an account of the latest _Harrington_ from her. I still think that mission only succeeded because Nan wanted advice on how to resolve the romance with Miss Spark.

They've been departing in units ever since; the Kingsport Contingent went first, summoned no doubt by the changing scenes of life. Poppy went with them, presumably to catch the first of the performances of _Hay Fever._ Rilla and Ken went this morning, Sissy clutching the engine of the Lionel Electric Train defiantly, Anthony whistling _Auld Lang Syne,_ Liam full of talk about what he'd do on return to Toronto, and Jims promising faithfully to write to us. Nan, Jerry and the girls lingered a little longer and we have been selfishly revelling in it. They'll be in yet another province from the autumn, and then we'll be back to flying visits every blue moon.

A happy new year, Jo. May you, yours and Martyrs' all thrive in the coming season.

Love ever,

Gil


	22. Chapter 22

Martyrs' Manse,  
Kingsport,  
January, 1932

Possibly for the last time. But more on that shortly. Let me begin by addressing a question you pose in your Christmas missive. Mara makes for an excellent Amanda. Phil and I cannot recall the last time we enjoyed an evening out so much as we did the Imperial's production of _Private Lives_. You must be sure and come up while _Hay Fever_ is still on, as I have every confidence in her Sorel. _The Chronicle_ cannot say enough good, and neither can the rest of your Kingsport Contingent. (Faith may be biased. I think she has a soft spot for Mara's performances partly for being Mara's, partly for not being Messers Gilbert and Sullivan.) Anyway, should you take me up on the suggestion, know there is always a place for you with us.

Now, as to that rather cryptic opening. I have lost Martyrs'. At the last convening of the General Assembly they formally dissolved the parish of Kingsport Fisheries, colloquially our Bundle Kirk. Starting this Advent season Martyrs' will cease to exist and its congregation will be absorbed by Hope Park, operating church of Kingsport Central.

I am not entirely clear what this will mean for my congregation. Obviously they will have a new church to go to, but they need so much more than that. They need meals provided, and doctors' services, meals and handholding and bedside visits, and all of it without condescension. Rev. Hannigan is a good preacher, and by all accounts a devoted university chaplain, but between sermonizing and the student body, I worry there will be no time for my fishing people. And they deserve time. They are good people, Gil. They need neither enlightenment by scriptural study course nor farming out to superior service jobs. They elevate, as Keble wrote, _the trivial round, the common task,_ and have unfailingly humbled me these many years gone in their dedication to God and their work on His earth. I pray their new minister understands, and pray more earnestly still that they can gain admittance there. It isn't lost on me that pew rent over at Hope Park has yet to be adjusted so as to accommodate the incoming congregation. One supposes it will be with time. I certainly _hope_ it will be. For, to deny them spiritual food is surely to fail them – to fail in our work – completely.

If I do not know what they will do, still less do I know what _I_ will do. I have never not had a church in my care. I have never not had _Martyrs'._ I mourned the loss of Waterford's Holy Trinity, and then Elie's Knox, it's true, but those were later additions. Martyrs' has been my life, Gil, and I find without it, I am adrift.

Less cerebrally, I do not know where Phil and I are to _live_. The Manse, obviously, went hand in glove with Martyrs'. Soon there will be no Martyrs'. While I cannot imagine the Rev. Hannigan has any need for a second Manse, neither am I so naïve as to think it should default to me. It could well be repurposed to some meaningful end; council estate houses, perhaps. A home for the food ministry – the list is long.

Phil says I ought to write ahead and petition the Presbytry to approach the Assembly about selling the house to us. The money, obviously, would go towards the new, combined parish. Then it could go to alms or whatever the secretariat judged needful. It isn't a bad idea. Part of me is even, selfishly, for it. The thought of staying here always, this place where our children were born and we weathered our first marital storms, triumphed over the secretariat. And yet it doesn't sit well with me. I keep thinking there must be a greater purpose for it, something more useful our little Manse can achieve than keep us under its roof.

Forgive me; I'm writing you in the immediate aftermath of receiving their verdict and you're getting the brunt of my feelings on the subject. Expect this year to be a long, prayerful one.

May you as ever, be well, do good work and keep in touch. I shall strive to do likewise.

* * *

New Manse,  
Glen St Mary,  
January, 1932

Jo,

We were sorry to hear about Martyrs'. I cannot imagine you anywhere else. I have always thought that you seemed grown there. That the only way to lose Martyrs' would be to lose _you_. The alternative never occurred to me. But then, it seems there is a long list of things that would never have occurred to me. The War, the market crash, the miners' strike all those miles away. None of it is good. But then, as the hymn says, _God moves in mysterious ways._ I wouldn't make bold as to guess at the intended wonder resulting from this move, only to suppose time will prove there _is_ one. If you are to lose Martyrs' it is because somewhere, other people have still greater need of you. That much I am confident in.

We sent Bruce back to Kingsport the other week, and very glad he is to be back, reading between the lines. When he's not in the lab with Miss Caldicote, he's over in Chinatown doctoring to the masses. Do you know, I now wonder what those two ever did before they met one another. And yet, inquiries are still met with the steadfast assertion there is only friendship there. Far be it from me to decry friendship as a kind of love, and a powerful one at that, so I do not argue. Rosemary _does_ and makes no headway for it. Naomi, by the by, takes her part in all of this, and Faith mine, citing her own kinship with the girls who pin hopes of Swallowgate days. Whatever their standing, I am glad. It's a peculiar thing, the knowledge that you can no longer imagine your life without someone as part of the fabric of it.

We have also, finally had Una's Christmas parcel. Her letter apologises for the delay in sending it, but adds that the ACS has been taken up with sending supplies on to China as and when it can get them across to the mainland. She adds that while the Japanese are unlikely to turn up on the doorstep of Trinity House any time soon that does not mean China has improved overnight. It is under famine, I gather, and badly cut off from the outside world. Obviously, I have written back to say that that rather takes precedence over the annual Christmas Cake, et&. I think I have said before that those things have come, in their way to mean Christmas to me, but it would all be for nothing if she were unhappy in the conjuring of them. Few things, I have noticed lately, bring her so much satisfaction than the outreach work she engages in, and all told, that is Christmas gift enough.

I said some of this to your daughter, round for tea yesterday, and she must have had the same letter from Una, or a version thereof, because as if on cue, she began to tell me all her latest ideas for the outreach we should be organising for China. Cornelia, happening to drop in at this juncture for Rosemary and their ongoing quilting effort, heard this and said she supposed _someone_ ought to do _something_ , because we couldn't let 'That Awful Man' have run of the country. As of the writing of this letter, it remains unclear to me if Mao's chiefest sin is his sex or his politics. I did not like to ask. Probably none of us will until Norman Douglas enters that conversational ring, and then we will hear nothing else for a long time to come.

Love and blessings,

J.M.

* * *

Ingleside,  
Glen St. Mary,  
March, 1932,

Jo,

A marvellous idea, that, about coming up to catch the Coward on at the Crown Imperial. Anne and I really ought to make more of an effort. It isn't as if we've been hearing about Mara's work for years or anything, certainly not as if the girls who pin hopes haven't been known to wax lyrical about it, during and after the war.

I haven't spent a night out like that in ages. Not since _Autumn Crocus_ had it's run. There have been church hall affairs since, I suppose, and the usual travelling fair, but nothing quite so elegant as Kingsport's Crown Imperial. And nothing so riotously funny since – well, actually, I don't think there _has_ been anything to rival Coward before. One or two dramas over the radio perhaps, but it's different, going in person, isn't it?

The children, naturally, were all triumphant about it – as if Anne and I had ever _doubted_. The number of _I told you so's_ doing the rounds was really something else. School was in full throttle, of course, and it seemed we only caught glimpses of the little ones, Christopher running full-pelt through the hall, shedding pieces of impedimenta in his wake, Helen serenely making her rounds of the house to kiss her people and steal a cup of (cambric) tea. She's become disgruntled, I notice, about that parenthetical descriptor since our last visit. I understand that nine is _quite_ old enough for proper tea. It is not; not according to my mother, nor to Marilla either. Judith, who was administering said tea, has evidently read and agreed with Cuthbert-Blythe Gospel, or I don't suppose anyone would be sticking to such niceties. Faith certainly wouldn't, and I hardly think Kitty would. She's sick to death of being the _de facto_ tea person at _The Chronicle_ without worrying about how the babies take it.

About Kitty; she is now in the throes of submitting to other papers. No one is terribly happy about this development, I think, except for Kitty herself. Though, as Teddy says, she always was too good for _The Chronicle_. Geordie, who came round to ask Jem's opinion on something, said that this meant they'd have to train up someone new in her place, and Christopher said for all of us that that _wouldn't be the same_ (emphasis his). It won't, either. Kitty is well and truly one of ours – has been ever since Di gave her the Larkrise address and assured her there were people there that would take her in. Still, it's early days yet. Personally, I hold out hope Di will conscript her into writing for _our_ paper, but only a very slight hope.

Anyway, I returned home to an exuberant Dulce, a recovering Susan (the same old trouble there) and Gog and Magog absent from their places. For a brief moment, Anne and I feared they had finally moved on to better days. It turned out Di had put them away in the china cupboard after Hector introduced them to Ellen Douglas as _God and My God_. Some things, I suppose, really don't change.

I'm sending this with a portion of the Forbes potatoes. I was sent home from a house call yesterday with nearly more than I could carry, and that being the case, naturally I thought you'd have some use for them. Don't they go in Kedgeree or something? No doubt you and your parishioners will have an idea or three.

Love ever,

Gil

* * *

New Manse,  
Glen St Mary,  
April, 1932

Jo,

Things seem to have temporarily settled in Singapore, and I am less worried for them than I have been. Reading between the lines, Una has bonded to _Papatee_ the buffalo. Li and Carl cannot decide if it was Nenni that swayed her or the animal itself. She also reports an outing to the Capitol to see _Grand Hotel_. They loved it, but it was otherwise very unpopular, and had a very short run. She says they were lucky to catch it when they did. She says too, that comparing notes with Naomi, her impression is that the censors took an excessive number of liberties with the film, which may have contributed to the unfavourable verdict. She adds that _The Music Box_ does much better but that this is no surprise, as Laurel and Hardy have been the perennial favourite for some years now.

Here there is much talk of the continued drought out west. Partly because it has got into the paper – the national section, so not Naomi's column – and partly because Gil has taken an interest. He didn't live there long, but long enough to be concerned about the effects of a drought settling so resolutely as this one has done. It was bad enough, he says, in the summers. They do not seem to have had a spring at all. As if there were not enough else going on to be concerned with.

There is also mounting concern over Cornelia, who lately resigned from the sewing circle. This comes of her hands having grown too clawed to hold a needle, much less manage piecework. I gather she never was keen on the exercises Gil prescribed her. This really _was_ newsworthy. Luckily, Naomi got to the student-in-residence delegated to cover the story before the editor and convinced him to spin it as being all about Cornelia's completion of her 150th quilt. Otherwise, it would probably been about the Decline and Fall of Mrs Marshall Eliot. I tremble to think of the fallout from _that._

Jerry and family did indeed make the trip for Easter. It shall probably be the last they spend with us for some time, in light of the upcoming move to B.C. Accordingly, all here have been making the most of it. Di and Nan go about together as much as they ever did, augmented, naturally, by Faith and Mara. Jem and Jerry have set up a proper chess tournament, and that was like old times, but for the wariness in Jerry's eyes when a room grows thick with people or he finds himself unexpectedly in an alcove.

And, of course the wee ones from Kingsport make almost as impenetrable a knot as their mothers do. It was a strange thing, watching Jerry's girls with them and realising that they had been too long apart to ever really fall in with them comfortably. They're _family_ , but they aren't _friends_. Whereas Christopher, Helen, Iain, and even Sophy…suffice it to say that if a threefold cord cannot be broken, a four-stranded one is still sturdier.

Susan, seeing this, resolved to set it right, and to that end corralled the lot of them into the kitchen the other day to dye eggs. There were some quite artistic ones in the making, when it suddenly occurred to Mandy to ask if there were _birds_ in the eggs. We could have about done with Carl then, I can tell you. Helen said there couldn't be, and Christopher said there must be. Mandy was so worked up about it that she refused to paint another shell, much less eat any of their creations, because, you know, there might be a chick inside, and it would be murder to boil them alive. I didn't dare ask how she reconciled that with the Easter lamb. I strongly suspect that given the option, she wouldn't eat it at all.

Susan heard all of this, and gave her characteristic sniff in response. But she afterwards observed to Di as they rinsed the pots, and I quote, 'What a blessing it was that Mara never converted any of you girls. Otherwise Nan would have brought little Mandy up Romish and she'd probably have gone right off communion too, what with that being pieces of God, and all that.' Hard to say, really, who found that funniest; the theologians, our resident Catholics, or Gil.

As ever, a happy Easter to you and yours. With any luck there are no hairs split over chicks and lambs at your end of the proceedings.

* * *

Martyrs' Manse,  
Kingsport,  
June, 1932

John,

I am surrounded roundabout with opinions on that awful section 98. Do you know, I had completely forgotten we had it? Looking at the front page of _The Chronicle_ for the past month, though, Jem finds it necessary, as does Geordie Carlisle, and Teddy agrees with them. Either people are escaping prison, murdering relatives, or driving cars into strangers for no reason at all. Even so, Kitty is incandescent in her disagreement, as is Faith, and I have to confess, I tend to take their part. It feels perilously close to declaring someone guilty without evidence. I know the nation's in turmoil, but this is no answer at all. This is stripping away rights and firing up still more turmoil in the process. There will be _more_ uprising, and then we'll have that on our hands. Besides, it is hard for me to take against people who only want to see their families provided for; I have worked with exactly that sort of person these long years. But perhaps this is more complicated and I am being simplistic?

It's not impossible. I freely admit I have given more time lately to the composition of relief parcels to send on to the prairies than I have to rioting unionists. In this, Bruce and Faith have been a tremendous help, as has Kitty between articles. Our parlour resounds with, 'What do you think of…' as she tries lines out on us. Even Helen joined in, deeply anxious that the children in Alberta have enough to eat.

'Don't they have fish heads for soup, mummy?' she asked solemnly as she made up a bundle. Faith did an expert job of pretending to inhale dust and choke in consequence, while Bruce dealt her a beautiful answer.

I fear he did rather too well, as she has since been reprimanded by the school for ,and you couldn't make this up, Money Lending. Do you know, I'm beginning to think the world has gone mad. As you'll appreciate, that patently made no sense, so Faith, confronted with all nine years and gangly limbs of daughter in the middle of her surgery hours, demanded an explanation. Pressed, Helen first recited the judicial oath you hear in courts, hand to heart, then said she was only trying to take up a collection from her classmates to send on to the families in need of the parcels. Only your Helen could get into a scrape like that.

Faith was still righteously indignant about it on Helen's behalf when she dropped round at ours with further contributions towards the relief parcels. She said if that wasn't the equal to the day she gave her best stockings to Lida Marsh, she didn't know what was.

Obviously, neither Helen, nor Phil or I, had heard that story, and that necessitated a recapitulation. Watching, it was equally evident that Mara knew it and Bruce did not, and therefore, neither did Miss Caldicote, who was round for the occasion. There was laughter all round and all I could think, John, was what a shame it was we hadn't known each other better in those early days. I think we could each have done with knowing someone else had children that ran glad riot across the parish. Well, I certainly could.

Be well, do good work, and keep in touch.

Jo

* * *

New Manse,  
Glen St. Mary,  
June, 1932

Jo,

You'll forgive me if I haven't quite succeeded in connecting the dots between a charity appeal started by a nine-year-old and money lending. You can't, by any chance enlighten me? Perhaps you have had an explanation from the Head Teacher? Bruce, down for a brief stint under Gil's eye, spent a valiant three-quarters of an hour making Rosemary and I understand, at the end of which I had to conclude he was as lost as we were. Anne was round, and thought to ask when poor Helen had stumbled into the plot of _The Merchant of Venice_ , which got laughter from all of us, but still no epiphany as to school logic. As Anne once sat on the Glen schoolboard, if she can't parse it, I declare it a lost cause.

In the end, we didn't dwell on it. We only have Bruce for a month, and there were far more pressing, not to say interesting details to parse. Word has come from Singapore that Li is expecting a baby, and that has not only Trinity House, but also the ACS children terribly excited. Not forgetting us here, Naomi inclusive. She is only sorry they are no longer on each other's doorsteps. I am too, in a way, as I worry a little over a baby with the genealogy this one will have. I suppose I said something of the kind while Naomi was round last, because she was quick to assure me that it will be in good company with many of the ACS children, who have similarly mixed pedigrees. I remain unconvinced she didn't say it to assuage my nerves. Still, babies are always something to look forward to, whatever the circumstance.

It being Fete season, I imagine you are feeling your last Martyrs' one with a vengeance, are you? I know I did, when it was me. One in a long season of lasts, I suppose. The best I can advise, really, is to try to find a _first_ to enjoy along the way, if you can. It takes some of the grimness out of the leave-taking. Do let me know how you get on. And as ever,

Love and blessings,

J.M.


	23. Chapter 23

_With thanks, as ever to all of you reading and/or reviewing._

* * *

Ingleside,  
Glen St Mary,  
June 1932

Jo,

Such a Sunday as we have had! You won't believe it, but I'm telling you anyway, as it's too good a story to waste. You know, of course, that we've got the Kingsport contingent down for the moment, Shirley and family inclusive, as they don't intend to leave for Scotland until a fortnight hence.

Today's service made for a very uninspired affair until the end, at which junction John raised his hand in benediction, and Iain, without missing a beat, tugged at Mara's sleeve and said, 'We _can't_ go! He hasn't given you Christ to eat yet!'

The look on Susan's face Jo – there really aren't words! I don't think it had ever struck her before that that boy was spending his Sundays anywhere other than Martyrs'. I mean, she knew _Mara_ never went, but I think she really thought Shirley took Iain with him to you. _How_ she got that idea, I don't know, but she'd obviously been nursing it for a while. Cornelia looked every bit as scandalised, and I'm sure Cousin Sophia actually said something. Not that I heard what; I made the mistake of looking at Jem, and he was sporting a grin wide as an Irish mile. Shirley had managed to swallow his laughter rather better, but Jem's mirth was infectious and I gave up straight off on any attempt at solemnity. I buried my face in Anne's shoulder and laughed until my eyes were streaming and my sides sore. Norman Douglas joined in, to Ellen's indignation, and that didn't help a jot.

John, bless him, did better than any of the rest of us, and cheerfully encouraged a traffic jam in the interest of explaining to wee Iain that we weren't in the habit of weekly communion, only at Easter.

'But _why_?' he wanted to know, in the way of little boys the world over. He went on to say something about how that wasn't as often as the Bible said to do it, or something, and all the while Susan was growing ever more horrified and pretending not to be because Cornelia was watching. Ellen had, by this juncture, raised an accusatory finger, though whether she intended it for Norman, John, or the rest of us was hard to judge. John, oblivious, had the nerve to say that Iain had a rather good point, which set Jem and I off again, and caused Anne to pinch both of us. Actually, she hissed at me, 'We're in _church,_ Gil,' as if I somehow had missed this revelation. I reassured her on this point, and the next time I looked over, John was explaining Scarcity of the Table to Iain, age 6.*

I judged it best to leave them to it, so sidestepped him at the narthex door.

'Our dinnertime conversation,' said Shirley to Jem as I passed them, 'more or less daily.' I guess Jem made some clever quip, because the next time I caught their conversation, they were laughing and Shirley was saying, with a nod towards John and the budding theologian, 'How he can parse all that, when the Elect make about as much sense as a chocolate teapot, I don't know.'

As you can imagine, the encounter has all but displaced the Whiskers-on-the-Moon Prayer Meeting in the Glen Annals for the time being. It has _certainly_ displaced the Easter Egg Conundrum. (Carl, by the way, has long since written Mandy a reassuring letter explaining all about chick eggs versus edible eggs that cleared the crisis up nicely.) I can't even blame Susan for having somehow missed Iain's churching at Sacred Heart, because we've had Di, Alastair and their children with us ever since they moved back to Ingleside. It was never even a question that they'd go elsewhere, and I don't only mean because there isn't a Catholic church closer than Harbour Head.

It was much-needed levity, as it happens, because not a month into summer, we are already seeing the return of polio. I so hoped it had gone with the autumn last year. _To everything a season_ and all that. Apparently illnesses are not well-versed in Ecclesiastes. Half of the Four Winds children at least must be under it, as is a sizeable portion of the Glen children. Rilla has got word – God knows how – and is talking of postponing her usual holiday until the children's half term. I would blame her, except that I can't help but see the sense in it. Faith is ever within pacing distance of the telephone, awaiting the summons back to the hospital, and Mara looks the way I remember her when the 'flu was at its height; beads in hand, anticipating the falling of some terrible shadow. I wouldn't blame her at all if she were to whisk Iain back to Kingsport. Not even Susan would, and really, that tells you everything that needs saying. Part of me wishes she _would_. But Shirley is rational, and so has reasoned her round to staying the fortnight out. Once, I wished it were more. Now I only wish them _safe._

Be well, Jo. Love ever,

Gil

* * *

Martyrs' Manse,  
Kingsport,  
June 1932

Gil,

I'm not at all sure it matters _where_ the children are at the moment. Kingsport's awash in hospital admissions, as is Halifax, to hear Jake talk, and Bolingbroke is no better if Ruthie is to be believed. Have you ever seen anything like it?

Martyrs' is feeling the absence of Faith and her clinic rather keenly. You know my people; they can't always get to a hospital and they've rather come to rely on her Sunday Surgeries. And, of course, Sam's girls miss your Kingsport Contingent terribly. No one to run amok with, I suppose, what with Jake and Ruthie declining to venture from home. We miss them, but as with you, can't really fault the logic. Not when we're not sure how contagious the polio is or how the children come by it.

John, by the by, tells me Faith is all fired up about some innovative thing involving lungs? You'll have to explain to both of us, I'm afraid, as he was quite lost on that score and his explanation reflective of this fact. He also advised me to eke out _firsts_ in this season of _lasts._ It was good advice, but I can't help feeling that he didn't have a parish-wide medical crisis in mind when he said it. Even the Waterford Rubella episode wasn't this dire.

It's strange, Gil, but I suddenly wish Naomi and her family had never left the comfort of Horley Hall. It wasn't so long ago I was wishing her home with a vengeance. And now – Una's ACS children sound healthier than any of ours here. I cannot get over it. I'm glad someone is, of course, but I am helpless here. I am surrounded on all sides by anxious mothers and ailing children, and cannot do a thing about it, except sit with them, and hold hands, and now and then offer up a meal or three dressed up as neighbourly concern. Bruce has been very good about sending on supplies, for which much gratitude, but it's not quite the same. I can only imagine John is relieved; one less thing to worry about when Li has her baby.

Now more than ever, may you be well, do good work, and keep in touch.

Jo

* * *

Ingleside,  
Glen St Mary,  
June, 1932

I've sent the children home. Well, Jem's furlough ran out and Faith was all but summoned back to the hospital. Here's hoping she can assuage the worst of your parishioners' fears while she's at it. We knew Halifax was under the same even before your letter came through because Mara had the sense to call the house there and make inquiries. Nothing good came out of them. Dr. Christopherson has written to say Crow Lake is awash in the same. As of this week, Mary's two youngest have got it, and so has Florrie Clow's wee girl. There's at least one case bad enough to warrant a visit to Charlottetown, for all the difference that will make. Probably not much. Having Bruce here has been a godsend. I _almost_ get time to sleep. Almost.

Be well Jo. Keep them safe.

Love ever,

Gil

P.S. I can only suppose Faith was talking to John about the iron lung. She's right; it will help. But I haven't time to explain it here. Write and remind me to do a fuller job next letter.

* * *

New Manse,  
Glen St. Mary,  
July, 1932

Jo,

The Food Ministry has quite fallen by the wayside. That is, my portion of it has. The last week alone I have buried three children. No one should have to bury their children, Jo. William Drew, Sarah-called-Sally Crawford, and little George Clow, who looked like he'd pull through until he didn't. The week before that it was Jeanie McAllister and Ted Gilbert.

Nathan Arnold has fared no better. No doubt if you ask, he'll reel off a similar list. So while all this goes on, Susan is cooking for the 500, and no one dares stop her, because it seems everyone not tending a sick child is grieving a dead one. Rosemary and Anne have joined with her, Cornelia too, and Di does what she can. Naomi and Fred have taken over the organisation of the Food Ministry, and at this point Nathan and I are about ready to call it an ecumenical endeavour. It plainly works better when we join forces anyway.

Do you know, I reckon I've paid more sick visits this last month than I have in all my cumulative years in the ministry?

Faith , Bruce, and Jem did what they could while they were here to lessen Gil's workload, but even that hardly seemed to make a dent. And now we haven't even got Teddy on hand to keep a distracted eye on Hector and Miss Abby. Dulce eggs them on to any number of wild adventures, and it doesn't cause half the comment it normally would because we're all that glad to see them _healthy_. Hector set the Drew goslings free the other day, and they tied up the shore road for hours. Carts, autos, nothing could get through for those goslings. No one batted an eye. Alastair came up to help Jack Drew corral the birds and that was the end of it. Norman Douglas didn't even make a joke of it.

Here's hoping some day someone shall. May there ever be a bit of mischief ahead of all our children.

Love and blessings,

J.M.

* * *

Ingleside,  
Glen St. Mary,  
July, 1932

Jo,

Evelyn Boyd's children are ill. Simon Crawford's daughters have it. So have Bertie Drew's children – two of them. Betty's _middle_ boy is under it now, the older one having come through last summer. I'm crossing my fingers this too is the non-paralytic polio. I'd like to say I'm getting better at telling, but I'm exhausted and I can't remember the last time I ate, or what I ate, and all that's an incidental detail. I'm writing this on the return from what was the old Bryant house up Four Winds way.

You know this. If this letter doesn't come on the heels of my telephone call, it will follow Naomi's. I'm sorry, Jo. If I knew how to prevent it…instead we'll bring him through it. He's a fighter, your Pip Arnold. He was when he was born, and I can't imagine that's changed now.

Joanie's been bundled off to Nathan Arnold's for the duration, and Cornelia hasn't said a word about Methodism. She and Susan are looking in on her regularly, and on Naomi. Rosemary and Anne too. Miranda Milgrave was doing her bit until her hands got too full of sick children to make the trip.

If you happen to catch him between house calls, give my best to Bruce. Faith will be as grateful to have him for her second pair of eyes as I have so lately been, I'm sure. Look after Phil. Take stock of Sam and family. And if you want a corner to crawl into closer to crisis, you need only ask. As Anne is wont to say, there is always the sparest of spare rooms here at Ingleside.

Love ever,

Gil

* * *

Martyrs' Manse,  
Kingsport,  
July 1932

Gil,

You were right; I did know. You had barely rung off when Naomi rung through with the news. As I said to her, I trust Pip completely to your care. If anyone can bring him through, it's you. He couldn't be in better hands. She knows that, Fred knows that, Phil and I know it too.

Here's to hoping he inherited Phil's tenacity as well as her nose.

Happening to run across Alice at the shops the other day, I further gathered that your Kingsport Contingent haven't stopped for breath since alighting from the train. Between polio and the Kincaid murder under near-constant coverage by _The Chronicle_ , I believe it.

In fact, I know this to be true. When I happened to call in on Larkrise the other day, it was to find all the usual suspects around the coffee table, Morris mugs in hand, comparing and contrasting the symptoms of poisoning as caused by Datura leaves versus hemlock. Asked for an opinion, I cast my vote for hemlock, for no more medical reason than the stuff actually _grows_ here. But Geordie reckons the murder knows their opera and thinks the reference is to _Lakme_ or something, which would make Datura more likely. The absurd part, Gil, is that it made a much-needed respite from sick visits, burials and the rest. Oh for the days when poisons were nothing more than an integral part of the grandchildren's rope rhymes!

I know you'll look after little Pip. I've said already I have every confidence in you. But look after my girl for me too, won't you? I can't be there, and she knows I can't and the reasons for it, but that doesn't lessen the sting any.

And don't wait news of Di's baby on our account. We're anxious here for harmless news.

God willing, may you continue to be well, do good work, and keep in touch.

Jo

* * *

New Manse,  
Glen St. Mary,  
August, 1932

Jo,

Everything here has taken a sharp turn into the chaotic. It began with Mary refusing to have young Marshall Douglas sent to Charlottetown. Gil wanted him in one of those contraptions Faith was on about – iron lungs? hands? – and Mary won't have it. Something about how she got Jims' through Diphtheria Croup by smoking him over hot coals, and she can do the equivalent here. Rarely have I seen Gil so angry. Not with her, I think, so much as with his inability to do anything meaningful. That lung contraption seems to be the best solution he has, and if Mary won't have it…Anyway, last we talked, he was holding out hope that Miller would talk Mary round. It wouldn't be the most impossible thing to happen to the Glen.

But that was only the start. Presently Miss Abby is staying with us while Ingleside is in bedlam. I'm not strictly sure how much to tell you – how much Gil will want to tell you himself. Hector is ill. So is the baby. All Gil wants to do is hover over them indefinitely, but he can't because that would be playing favourites and he's still got a list of patients long as his arm. Longer. Betty's boy is recovering nicely, so there's a glimmer of hope there, and so is the older of the Boyd children. The youngest is touch and go. Pip though, has got his grandmother's pluck in spades. Gil thinks the crisis has broken there, but can't properly assess the damage yet. He thinks it might not be possible for a while – until Pip starts trying to crawl. Or that's what Naomi was telling me when she dropped in with a wee minding for Miss Abby. _How_ she has the time, when she never once abandoned the paper through all of this, never once got behind on her news column, I don't know.

Selfishly, Rosemary and I are rather enjoying the company. With Faith and family gone, and Bruce back in Kingsport, it's nice having a wee one around to spoil. She's a very affectionate child, Miss Abby, always climbing into laps and asking for stories, quicker to snatch up whatever nibbly thing one is foolish enough to leave within her reach. Once or twice Rosemary has woken to find she's crawled into bed and tucked her feet against the back of Rosemary's knees. Others, we wake up to the sunrise streaming through the window, and little green eyes jewel-bright and staring down at us in eager anticipation of the day. She loves nothing better than to sit on Rosemary's knee at the piano and jab at the keys. So far, she has resolutely resisted every attempt at a lesson, but I caught her this morning improvising a frenetic harmony to _Sur la Ponte, D'Avignon_ while Rosemary played, so all is not lost.

Thinking of you, Jo, and hoping all of yours are well. And because I don't say it often enough, thank you for all those lessons over the years on how to be present in a community. Mine has never needed me more, and I'm sure I shouldn't have known where to begin without your advice.

Love and blessings,

J.M.

* * *

Ingleside,  
Glen St. Mary,  
August, 1932

Jo,

The _month_ we have had. You said not to wait news of the baby, and you must know by now that I have – and by some margin. But where to start? The children will have told you the brunt of it, I suppose. They are coming down on purpose the first chance they get. I should have realised I wouldn't have to ask them.

It was a hard birth, Jo. The other two hadn't been, and rather stupidly I thought this one wouldn't be either. It wasn't. We had got complacent. Somehow we got through it, though don't ask me how. I'm still not at all clear on that score. One minute there was haemorrhaging and confusion everywhere, the next I had somehow stemmed the worst of it and Susan had got the baby cocooned to her the way she did back when Shirley was born.

I went out, to catch my breath, to temper my nerves, I don't know. To maybe not be a gibbering wreck of a man around a daughter that still needed the doctor more than her father. I'm not sure. Only that was where the trouble started.

Susan says it's her fault for putting the baby down, but that really isn't it at all. She gave the baby to Di, hoping it would feed, I think, and maybe to encourage those last, final contractions. But she was such a small baby, and the labour so long…well, never mind.

It was about then that Alastair appeared to remember he was latently Romish, or perhaps he only hadn't realised our policy change on unbaptised babies.** I don't know. Anyway, his first thought was to have her baptised. Susan had gone for fresh linen, and Anne and Di were both dozing, the baby curled like a kitten on Di's chest. Well, off Alastair went to the telephone, and none of us gave a thought for Hector, because we supposed he was tucked up asleep in his bed, thumb in mouth. _Why_ we should, when that story about little Walter walking the six miles from Lowbridge is now a thing of legend, I don't know. But as it fell out, Alastair went for the phone, and little Hector just scooped his wee sister up, and off he went to Rainbow Valley.

Because, you see, you need water for a baptism. And where better to find water than the brook running through the Valley? Never mind that all anyone has got out of it these last few years is a bad case of polio. How was he to know? We'd only said not to _swim_ in it Jo, or drink it, and he wasn't going to do that. He hadn't banked on overbalancing, on falling in and them both half-drowning.

John arrived as summoned, and _then_ , well, we didn't half miss the children! We tore Ingleside apart trying to find them. Anne, bad ankle and all, climbed that ancient ladder to the garret, and came back empty handed. When Susan came back from the kitchen wringing both hands instead of clutching a child in each, I chanced the valley. I found them scrabbling for purchase on the riverbank, little Hector collapsed from the shock of the cold water as much as the dead weight of his sister. They were soaked. He was shivering with cold, and she was blue with it. I got him under one arm, and cradled her in the other – she really was dainty, Jo – and carried them back to the house. There we smothered them in blankets, forced cocoa on Hector and swaddled the baby within an inch of her wee life.

Much good that did. He was running a fever by morning. They both were. I made Dick Parker come in to tell me what I already knew in the interest of an impartial opinion. His impartial opinion was that he hadn't seen a worse case of polio since this mess started. Then he helpfully added that perhaps I had, because after all, he was only the Lowbridge doctor and thinking about retiring in any case. I was tempted, so tempted Jo, to shake him for his trouble. Instead I thanked him, and saw to it that someone brought him a cup of tea with honey. I resisted the urge to tell Dick that years of honesty had made a terrible liar of him, and debated the virtues of summoning Faith. She did, after all, work a miracle on little Miri all those years ago, when she was so cyanotic and small. Oh, I thought of it. Instead, I rang up Kitty and asked her to find the death notices section of her paper and give me an approximate idea how many were children and how many from polio.

My God, Jo. The work you must have on your hands! Evidently I couldn't summon Faith away for a favour with numbers like that to battle. Nor Bruce, nor Jem either. I've been hearing all about the Kincaid murder through Helen and Christopher's letters. I know Christopher's future career changes almost by the hour, but I shouldn't be at all surprised if one or both of them decided on detection. I really shouldn't.

But never mind that. The point is, what followed was a bleak month. I gave them both as much time as I could, and that wasn't nearly enough. Somewhere in there, your Pip shocked himself into a full recovery, and I don't know which of us was more relieved. I'd begun to think no one _could_ recover, you see. And by then I'd lost so many babies to polio I really wasn't sure what to expect.

After that I thought to call Nan, who was full of some story about a moose she, Jerry and the girls had spotted while out on a canoeing expedition. Miri had named it, Mandy had drawn it, and Jerry had been transfixed. When eventually it moved on, Mandy climbed up onto the bow of the boat and called the loons, and she and Jerry painted those for good measure. Watercolour, apparently. No one was sick, likely to become sick, or expressing polio symptoms. I rang off and wanted to weep. Relief, gratitude, oh any number of reasons.

John will have told you, of course, that somewhere in this madness we bundled Miss Abby off to him. The poor lamb hadn't the least idea why or what was happening. No one was quite sure what to tell her. Di was still recovering, and Alastair demurred, so in the end I think Anne said something about Miss Abby going on a holiday to the Manse because her brother was very ill and Mummy too. No one mentioned the baby. I still can't decide if that was a blessing or otherwise. No doubt John and Rosemary spoiled her. Well, someone ought to have done. She'd become half an afterthought in the days after the birth, and that wasn't fair.

And all the while, Hector wouldn't get better and wouldn't get better, and neither would the baby. He was breathing all right, but she wasn't, and somewhere along the line I began to realise that I could fight for her all I wanted, but it wasn't going to make a damn – forgive me – bit of difference. I watched her dying, and I staved off her dying, and I got Dick back to join in the lost cause that was my youngest granddaughter's life. I thought about calling Faith again, recalled the masses of death notices Kitty was running, and went back to preventing Hector and his sister from dying.

 _He_ had the grace to recover. Well, for a value of recovery. Dulce came in and lay at his feet on the bed, and he didn't react. Neither did Susan. She actually brought Dulce's food up to her and let her eat _on the bed_. As I said to Anne, observing this, I have now lived to see everything.

Watching them, you know, the boy and his dog – in as much as Dulce is anyone's dog – I thought of little Monday all those long years ago. Ever so patient. This was the same. She laid her coppery head on Hector's feet and stared at him with eyes like sad stars. And then, and this I'll never forget, he woke and he asked with a voice like sandpaper for someone to fetch Dulce to him. I don't know what hurt more; the shock on Anne's face as she hastened to tell him Dulce was there, practically on top of his feet, or the confusion on _his_ when he said he couldn't feel her.

Well, I thought, that was all right. He'd had a medium-sized dog asleep on his feet for weeks. Anyone's feet would go to sleep. But he couldn't feel my fingers either. Not when I picked his foot up to test his reflexes, and not when I tickled the sole of it the way I used to do when he was a baby. I asked if he'd outgrown being tickled, said that it was all right if he had, because Jims had never been much for it, and we were still awful fond of Jims…and Hector looked at me quizzically and said, 'But you aren't _doing_ anything.'

While I was grappling with that revelation, and working out what we would do about it, he asked after Aurelia.

'Who, darling?' said Anne, because I couldn't.

'Aurelia,' said Hector, the way one speaks to a particularly slow child. An awful, sinking feeling like lead bloomed in my stomach. 'The baby,' he said for clarification, as if we were especially thick.

'Like the hymn tune, darling?' said Anne, who was still saving me from the effort of speaking. Hector bobbed his head in affirmation and I sent up an unthinking prayer that he could still do _that_ anyway.

It all came out then, about the baptism. The piece I hadn't quite put together when I found him on that hill cresting Rainbow Valley. And all the while I was listening, I was trying to think how in the name of God one tells a little boy that his baby sister is dead of poliomyelitis. Anne spared me that. Pulled him into her arms, whispered into his fiery hair – so like his mother's – and said it for me. Watching her, I thought I had failed them twice over. Not only hadn't I saved her – Aurelia like the hymn tune – but I couldn't find the nerve to tell him.

I'd barely found the energy to tell _Di._ I still think I only managed that much because she looked me in the eye and demanded I tell her how bad it was – and I said the thing I'd hoped I'd never say to any of them. The thing I thought we'd dodged the worst of back at Swallowgate when Mara looked at me like an angel in the old-world sense, all fire and lightening – and demanded to know if anyone was dying. Then I said no one would die. Looking over the cot though, at the little, writhing, withered body, what else could I say? I told my daughter that _her_ daughter was dying, and held her afterwards, and apparently thereafter ran out of strength to tell anyone else, ever again.

I've failed her, Jo. All of them. I've pulled any number of people's children through the polio this last summer; Boyds, Crawfords, McAllisters, Morrises, even Mary Douglas's lad has recovered, though he'll limp hereafter. Even your children's children. I've saved all of them, and I don't regret it, would do it again – but where it counted, oh, Jo, I've failed her completely.

That's an unfair thing to say. There's no weighing of lives above each other, not really. John can write you a very nice sermon on it, I'm sure. Something about how the sting of sin is death and how God gave us victory over it through Christ. That's how it goes, isn't it? You'll forgive me if I can't quite see the victory.

No, that's not right either. Hector's recovered sufficiently to take meals propped up in bed. A lot of Susan's beloved cure-alls, which fly in the face of the hot weather, but he doesn't complain. Soon, Alastair and Dulce will call round at the Manse and retrieve Miss Abby, and it will be good to have her back, her sweetness and light. Anne has rung round, and the children are coming down for the funeral. I suppose there are victories in those things.

There will be a funeral. We'll bury her over harbour, next to our white lady. Only she wasn't white, this baby. Small, and so terribly cold to the touch, but not white. There's a sort of comfort there, knowing Joy will look out for her little niece. At least, that's Anne's idea, and I'm adopting it. I can't bear the alternative.

Keep well Jo, you and all of yours. And know I really am glad about Pip. I've temporarily misplaced the ability to say so, is all.

Love ever,

Gil

* * *

Martyrs' Manse,  
Kingsport,  
August, 1932

Gil,

Faith told us. Immediately she got Anne's call, she called us. I cannot begin to tell you how sorry I am. Look for us with the others. We will come down on the same train, and will stay with Naomi, so as not to be underfoot. Until then, _Do not be afraid. Do not be discouraged._ That's in the Bible too. You write of failing them, Gil, but I mark two lives saved and one you fought a valiant fight for. You have given yourself to the work of the Lord the best and only way you can, and no one can fault you for that. It's cold comfort, I know. Here's hoping I'll have more fluency when we reach you.

In the meantime, say whatever you like. It's a sideways world indeed when we are burying the little ones. No one expects you to know what to say, much less do. No one ever _does_ when these things happen.

Prayers, love and affection go to you, as notwithstanding the circumstances, you continue to do good work and keep in touch. I know you will. We'll see what we can't do towards being well on arrival.

Jo

* * *

* _I can't remember if I've glossed this in previous chapters, but for anyone who hasn't seen the phrase before, Scarcity of the Table was the name I was given in bygone years to describe the doctrine that says only the Elect, or God's Chosen people, take communion. In very traditional churches you still set a table in the chancel as part of the ritual. And just to be awkward,l you that you can only take Communion like this if you know beyond all doubt you are one of the Elect, as opposed to just suspect you might be. No one but God knows what side of that coin you end up on, so often only the celebrating Minister would end up partaking._

** _This revision dates to the revised Presbyterian stance on unbaptised babies; namely, from the 1920s onwards we let them into Heaven. And that concludes this chapter of Lessons in Presbyterian Theology._


	24. Chapter 24

New Manse,  
Glen St Mary,  
September, 1932

Jo,

The children have mostly gone now. You can expect Faith and Shirley back at Martyrs' on Sunday. Only Nan and family have stayed on. If it weren't for the pall over Ingleside, I would almost say it is like the old days in that you never find one twin without the other. But I remember them laughing. I haven't heard – that's not right. Occasionally Nan starts to laugh, over something one of the children has said, or at the surprise of an especially beautiful and autumnal tree, and then she remembers herself – remembers the others – and stops short. It is a terrible thing to see Nan without laughter in her. Jerry says it is new even to him.

We were sitting by the fire the other evening, playing at crokinole, and hurting our fingers for our trouble, when he happened to let slip that more than prayer or divine grace, or anything we might like to call it, the thing that got him through the war was the memory of Nan laughing. The sound of it like bells, and the way her eyes smiled when she laughed. And do you know, I think that is the most he has ever said to me on the subject of his war.

The funny thing was, Nan said nearly the same thing about Poppy. She'd come down for the occasion with Peter – leaving that camp they run to sort its own affairs for the time being, I suppose – and after the first exclamatory cries of 'Mouse!' and the usual kisses all round, I heard Nan observe to Jerry that she'd never known Poppy so solemn.

'That was all your part,' she said to Mara, 'back when the others were ill.'

'Don't,' said Mara, and by mutual agreement they left the subject.

Gilbert can probably tell you more. Always supposing he is still writing. It is all any of us can do at the moment to get him to sit still for two minutes together. It seems he is forever thinking of someone he 'must just drop in on', or prescriptions to deliver, or records to write up. Several times now Susan has pointed out that he cannot reasonably tell her not to kill herself working, when he is determined to do exactly that. Gilbert having never been much in the habit of taking Susan's ribbing to heart, ignores her. Anne and Di do rather better, I think, drawing him into the odd conversation on the veranda, or to taking a cup of tea over breakfast.

The little girls – what we still, illogically call Miri and Mandy – have been a godsend. No one can hold laughter against _them_ and Hector and Miss Abby love them for it. You find them often together, a child each on their knee, Dulce at their feet, Miri spinning stories from her fingertips while Mandy finishes her sentences. It is heartening to watch, even if they do retreat to our kitchen stairs to snatch their moments of mirth. Little Iain had the right of it, I think, suggesting God would allow them to laugh, but when has eleven ever listened to six?

So they convene behind the Manse as if merriment were contraband, and the little girls chase some of the lines away from the eyes of Di's children. There's a crease just next to Hector's left eye that will be every bit as permanent, I think, as the loss of his legs, a sort of testament to the fact that he has, after all, lost a sister.

Abroad, news is rather more hopeful. You won't be a bit surprised to hear Una and Li are collaborating on embroidered niceties for the impending baby, but the ACS children have joined in the collaboration. The boys have taken to whittling animals in the woodwork class, and the girls practice their stitches on liners for the cot and all sorts. Naomi, who began working a sling before Pip fell ill, has resumed it, and has asked I pass on her apologies when, inevitably, it arrives late. Given that all at Trinity House are well versed in the current news, the only apologies going anywhere are the ones they entrusted to me for missing the funeral.

As I understand it, Rev. Peach made mention of the baby in the usual morning chapel service on hearing the news, and has all the children keeping Hector and family in their prayers. Indeed, the Mission being what it is, I wouldn't be at all surprised to hear they were praying for the wellness and recovery of all our children.

Li, so I am told, was in the throes of observing what Una and Bruce between them describe as a kind of All Souls, or more literally Praying to the Ghosts. It's what Liam by way of his Aunt Cass would call Ancestor Worship, and involves the burning of all sorts of paper effigies of needful things for the dead. I do not exactly understand it, but as Una explains it, at the height of the festival, the realm between Heaven and Hell opens up and the living are able to perform rites that absolve the dead of their suffering. I think. I've sent to the library for books on the subject with the purpose of reading up on it. Still, the general idea is a lovely one, especially when I think of all those children we unceremoniously condemned before the General Assembly changed its mind on the subject. Especially when I think of little Aurelia. I sat with her a handful of times – I have sat with too many babies of late, battling and succumbing to polio.

I'm heartened, in all of this, that your Naomi's boy was not among this last.

Thinking of you, as you and all the Kingsport Contingent face that inevitable resistance that comes with the resumption of school. After the summer we've had, you and the others will weather it with flying colours. Probably Faith won't even complain if the children are back to choking on allies.

Love and blessings,

J.M.

* * *

Ingleside,  
Glen St Mary,  
September, 1932

Jo,

Nan is leaving at the end of the month. It was Di's idea. She's clever enough to know Nan and Jerry must be talking behind doors of returning home before the weather turns. They left without telling the neighbours to look in, and frozen pipes might pale in comparison to the goings-on here, but they're still a tribulation. We've all had enough of those of late to be sensible to the hurt they occasion, even the lesser ones.

Nan is reluctant, but the little girls won't go without her, and neither will Jerry. And, as Di says, Nan has been too long away from her work. The public, never mind her publisher, will be clamouring for the next _Harrington_ on her doorstep if she isn't careful.

So they'll go as the wind turns and the leaves bronze, and the air gets that chill quality October heralds. Even so, she sat up a long time with Di the other evening. I left them not playing cribbage when I set out for the Douglas place, and they were still not playing it when I returned by way of the Nelson homestead and the Manse at some ungodly hour. Di was saying as I came in, 'and you have a life to get on with.'

I suppose we all do, if it comes to that. The trouble is picking it up where we left off. Hector, as you'll appreciate, is still in no position to think about returning to school. I feel badly about this, as I know full well what it is to get behind one's set. On the other hand, I won't have his recovery rushed. Children might be elastic, but they aren't invincible. So for the time being, Hector is confined to what has become his room, with Dulce a frequent visitor, and Anne too, book in hand. Miss Abby loves nothing better than to snuggle against him and chatter about her day, and he tells me he likes that best of all, because she doesn't treat him a bit different than she used to do. I made the mistake of encouraging him to elaborate and was reliably informed that she still talks too much, squishes his ribs, steals Dulce's attention, but also tells a good story and invents interesting games. Also, and this was apparently gravely important, she is still inferior at I Spy. They play rather a lot of this, I understand.

Among the grown-ups, Alastair does better than any of us, being now in the throes of converting the cold store into ground floor bedroom for Hector. At first, this horrified Susan, who was all for donating her little room to the cause. I won't have her running up and down stairs more than necessary, though, and with the acquisition of a new refrigerator years ago, the cold store has become redundant. Even Susan has to concede it pales in efficiency next to the Frigidaire. And as I don't think crutches will do Hector any good, and we shan't always be able to carry him, sacrifice the cold store we must. Alastair assures all of us that with proper insulation and a coal heater for winter weather, it should be more than serviceable. We'd cover the floor too, if that wouldn't make it unnavigable. Instead, Anne is unearthing all the old, beloved apple leaf quilts from the garret that we never got to make proper use of, and Cornelia has donated such a quantity of her own handiwork that if anything, poor Hector will suffer from being over-warm come the cold weather.

You'll gather from this that the conversion progresses apace. Alastair says the work stops him thinking, and that is something to be grateful for. Di is beginning to talk of returning to the paper, and Anne says this is a sign that it really is all right for Nan and family to make the trip back to Vancouver.

Part of me is glad. A larger part of me will miss them. I'm half-starved for seeing them, and while I could wish it were under different circumstances, it has been good seeing the Ingleside twins together again. Good too, to hear Anne and Nan batting plot points back and forth the way the average cat does a mouse, Miri here and there leaping in with an idea or ten. May we never want for writers, here at Ingleside.

Don't worry too much, Jo. I know John does. But I'm well aware there won't be any practice for Bruce to come back to if I die before he takes it over. I don't really want that anyway. I'm just after that blissful not-thinking that the others have stumbled their way into. Some day, I suppose, I won't need it. There are moments, even now, where I find I don't. Dulce will rest her head on my knee, or Miss Abby climb onto my shoulder like the monkey she is – or Hector will badger Susan for monkey faces, and everything feels right for a heartbeat. Then the wrongness of it, of the little girl we have buried, comes flooding back, and somehow that's worse. I didn't think there could be anything worse than having one's failure to one's children perpetually before one's eyes, but there it is. There can be and there is.

I can still hear _Aurelia,_ you know, as sung at the service. _Jerusalem the Golden_ in all its breath-taking awe and loveliness. I'll never sing either again. Not _Aurelia,_ nor _Jerusalem the Golden_ though it be set to any other tune in the hymnal. They're forever tied now to that little shrivelled body Hector plucked from the river and John consigned to the hereafter. _I know not what social joys are there_ indeed. I hope they live up to whatever childish expectation she cherished, radiancy of glory and light beyond compare notwithstanding.

And because I've been remiss and an idiot and not said before, thank you for coming when you did. You've been a brick through the whole awful mess. You and John both. You've let me fall to pieces, and on occasion throw those pieces out the window. You've taken your share of the weight, and helped with the arrangements, and somehow, neither of you, through all of it, have sermonised at me. Thank you Jo, a thousand thousand times over. I don't say it enough, but I do mean it.

Love ever,

Gil

* * *

New Manse,  
Glen St. Mary,  
October, 1932

Jo,

We have seen Nan and Jerry off to British Columbia. Shortly after their departure, Di arrived to collect Miss Abby from us. 'After all,' she said with the ghost of what wanted to be a smile, 'we have two children alive. We might be glad about it.' Wise advice, but I gave her shoulder a press on the way out all the same – a reminder that she is, in fact, still allowed to grieve the child that has died.

As predicted, Rosemary and I miss our houseguest keenly, right down to jam-spackled fingers and the watermarks on the end tables. It's selfish, of course; we'd got used to the company, to the chatter and the endless questions, the imperfect traipsing of her fingers across the piano keys. I miss being enfolded in that perpetual light and sunbeam that is Miss Abby to the core. It's worth it all though, to know she is back home in her proper place. If we have to go to Ingleside for the sun, so be it. It's a ready enough excuse for keeping a gentle eye on the lot of them, and I'll not protest _that._

Elsewhere, I hear tell, Bruce is helping you organize one final Harvest Festival. His letters are as full of it's vexations as they are of his collaborations with Alice Caldicote. Here we have a surfeit of potatoes coming in and no intelligent idea about how to arrange them in suitably festive manner. As if that sort of thing matters. The other day, Rosemary opened the hymnal, planning music selections, and asked me how she was ever to look Anne in the eye over _Bringing in the Sheaves._ Innocuous enough, right up until that bit about _We shall come rejoicing._ But then, it seems they're all like that, the hymn selections. _Fair Waved the Golden Corn_ goes on about cheerful thanks, _We Plough the Fields and Scatter_ is adamant – well, you know that awful chorus without my recapitulating it here. In the end I said that one thing Anne absolutely would not want was for us to choose now to start walking on egg-shells. So _Bringing in the Sheaves_ is on the roster, as are the others.

But what I was going to ask, before I got diverted with discussion of hymnody, is how you are faring. Have the Assembly made a decision about selling you the Manse? More to the point, how are you bearing up as the end draws nigh? It never is easy, however prepared we feel we are. I know we've all been preoccupied here, of late, but do not think I've forgotten – that your loss is any less a loss. You put years into that church, those people.

As ever, love and blessings,

J.M.

* * *

Martyrs' Manse,  
Kingsport,  
November, 1932

John,

We are indeed to be allowed the purchase of the Manse. The General Assembly finds it will be of no further use to the combined parish of Hope Park and Martyrs', formerly Hope Park. The other manse is in much better upkeep, having fewer leeks, less inclination to mildew, and no cracks in the central boiler system. Be assured we will shortly mend all of the above-mentioned defects. They were ever on the list of necessities to be seen to as and when Phil and I had more time. We will shortly have a great swathe of it before us. Sam has promised to help, and Jake too, the next time he is down for a visit. It is the one bright spot amid so much tumult.

I don't need to tell you that this is the only home Phil and I have ever known. A funny, ramshackle thing that was never supposed to house so many of us as it ultimately did. But we made a depot of the parlour and bundled the children in together, learned to cook with the kitchen door ajar to stop the house filling with smoke…and now, of course, I wouldn't swap any of it. Tea taken at the coffee table is a nicety reserved for other houses. We all, long ago, became floor people, nursing teacups while sorting through the charity of others, the kitchen table flooded with goods meant for redistribution. It hasn't always been easy, it has often been chaotic, but it has been _ours_. So while I grieve the loss of the church and the people that made it, in my own quiet way, I cannot help but be glad that we do not have to uproot after all.

We were prepared to, you know. There was a spare room with Sam and Ellie, and we'd have occupied it until something else came up.

I had a letter from Gil the other day to say that renovations to the Ingleside downstairs have nearly finished. This in time for Susan to suffer another one of her attacks, would that be right? Phil read that and said that the old wives were right about trouble always coming in threes. Part of me thinks we exceeded a triad of unfortunate events months ago. But then Nell comes to me with a new word like a triumph, or Emma bursts in, Sophy on her heels, full of the adventure of the hour, and I find I can be optimistic after all.

Speaking of which, when I last dropped in on Larkrise, Christopher told me very solemnly that he was going to be a zookeeper. What inspired _that_? The last I heard, he was going to fly aeroplanes the way his uncle did during the war. As Faith said, hearing this, 'At least it's a nice, normal career that doesn't involve speculating a time of death.' I find that presently, there's much to be said for that argument.

May you ever be well, do good work, and keep in touch.

Jo

P.S. Naomi tells me you wound up capitalising on my idea of a communal bonfire to roast the potatoes. How did that go over? Gil usually sends a faithful report of the congregational side of Harvest Festival, but this is not a usual year. Did Cornelia Scowl? Was Cousin Sophia even _there_? How many of the children tried to fall into the fire? I refuse to believe that idea is original to Evie. And for goodness sake, send us an update on Miss Abby. Bruce likewise feels her absence, and I can tell him exactly nothing about her current exploits.

* * *

Ingleside,  
Glen St. Mary,  
Nov, 1932

Jo,

Christmas seems to be creeping up on us with abnormal closeness this year. Strange, because it doesn't feel terribly seasonal. There's snow, of course, and the usual greenery, and a terrible strain of influenza to contend with, but even taken together those things do not add up to a holiday.

Especially not the influenza. I'm looking forward, almost guiltily to the termination of Bruce's term and the arrival of the Kingsport contingent as he, with Jem and Faith will certainly relieve some of the pressure at this end. What I wouldn't give for the luxury of not taking every call, of sitting with the children when they need it, of distracting the wee ones and rambling through the wood with Dulce.

Even then, I doubt things would run smoothly. The other day, Dulce captured a chipmunk and laid it lovingly on the braid rug. The chipmunk, not being completely dead, seized the opportunity to revive, and rush around the room at breakneck speed, leaving the babies in stitches, Dulce bewildered, and Susan spouting stuff about 'That Dog.' Alastair was out, which left me to capture it, and a fine time I had of that, as I'm sure you'll imagine. It wound up on the mantle, cornered behind a combination of the complete _Harrington_ and a photo of Teddy and Kitty flanking the Kingsport Children on the start of school, two years back.

Later, putting Miss Abby to sleep, she wanted to know if it was true, what Hector had said about the baby being her guardian angel. As I hadn't realised he _had_ said this, that flummoxed me for a good few minutes. And all the while she stared at me with Anne's eyes, freckled nose scrunched in curiosity, repeating at intervals, 'Well? Is it?'

In the end I said I really thought it _must_ be, because, quite honestly, Jo, it was the easier thing to say, even if not very Presbyterian. But I couldn't look at those eyes – Anne's eyes – and tell her that her baby sister had chosen Heaven over Earth or whatever the Presbyterian line on death is. I gave her a kiss, said she was lucky to have a sister looking out for her always, and an aunt to. That meant I had to tell her about Joy, which I did, but I think I only survived _that_ because I had Abby like a limpet all sweetness and warmth against my chest, talc-scented and very much _breathing_.

I worry about her, you know. Not for any medical reason, but she leaves the house less and less of late. Ever since Nan and the little girls left, our Abby has taken to sitting in on the lessons Anne gives Hector. She tells me they compete for the right to first answer in a way that recalls Davey and Dora. Which would be fine, if Abby weren't forever finding reasons to turn up in Hector's room. Pictures she'd drawn, the augmentation of a dolls' tea party, stories she wants him to tell, private games they enact enisled on the land of counterpane. It would be sweet if it wasn't such a rarity to see her out of the house. Miri could tempt her to it – actually, Miri would scoop her up perforce and carry her off places, and Miss Abby would let her. I tried doing much the same the other day and got nothing but wide-eyed weeping for my trouble, and a tattoo beat by small fists against my back until I carried her back to the house.

I'm reminded of the Bay Silver Gardners, did you ever meet them? Their girl was much the same, before the house caught fire and she went away to be married. Neither Long Alec, whose house it was, nor Judy Plum, who knew Susan through some connection or other, liked it at all, and I don't think either of us understood why until recently. Of course, it was the house Pat cleaved to, as much as the people. I can't decide how much Ingleside comes into it with Miss Abby. Not much, I think. As Anne observed the other night, catching Susan and I mid-wrangle, 'You mustn't be hard on her. She's afraid if she looks away, Hector will disappear on her, too.'

I couldn't bear to ask how she understood this, not then, and not later as she readied for bed.

We'll get there. So, I trust, will you. What does your holiday look like? Ruthie must be enjoying the novelty of being able to host an occasion at last. When was the last time she got you all up to Mount Holly? Anne hazards it was the death of Hetta, but that cannot be right. Your little Hetta isn't even the baby anymore, so you must have been down for a baptism at least. My brain is becoming a sieve. No wonder I need a partner. Write and remind me. I'll take the liberty of wishing you a precipitate Happy Christmas in the meantime.

Love ever,

Gil

* * *

Martyrs' Manse,  
Kingsport,  
December, 1932

Strictly speaking, I don't suppose this _is_ a manse any more. The church is dissolved, my people scattered. Well, to a point. My people are still very much where they ever were, in the rows of fishing and council houses surrounding Patterson St. What they are not is attending the newly established Hope Park and Martyrs' on the High. This, should you be wondering, is what was Hope Park, its name since changed to reflect the absorption of our parish. All in the interest of continuity, apparently. And my people aren't staying away because of loyalty. I'm not so vain as to suppose that, I hope. No, Faith, having paid the pew rent into the New Year, says its markedly higher to what anyone ever paid over at Patterson St, no surprise there. She adds – and this is perhaps worst of all – that of the families that _did_ risk attendance, she overheard at least one turned away not for monetary reasons but for the smell of _fish_. As if it were somehow novel that people who worked with it…I suppose I would be uncharitable were I to continue.

Bright spots in all this include Rev. Hannigan's agreement to Faith continuing the Sunday Surgeries at the new church – provided the secretariat approve, obviously – and our continued tenure on Patterson St. The money from the sale, I understand, will go towards the refurbishment of Hope Park and Martyrs. I suppose its overdue, being itself a very old church. Even so, it does not feel altogether…well, it is no longer my parish. What I would do with the money is neither here nor there. Instead, I will get to work on overhauling the central boiler system, as promised. Rather, because I am no engineer, Sam, Shirley and Jake are going to have a look at it come Easter. In the meantime, the High St church isn't a bad one. The sermons are good, the people by and large friendly.

It is a strange thing to attend as a congregant, after so many years active involvement. Phil says I might find a project, if I went looking, but I shouldn't like anyone to think I was treading on their toes. I must do something though. I never did have your gift for hunkering down with a brick of a book and working my way through it. I doubt I'd be much good at starting now. To that end I'm keeping both eyes peeled for work in the community that will enable me to keep my hand in without setting anyone's nose out of joint. If I never was much for bookishness, I was even less for church politics. One thing I emphatically do _not_ miss is answering to a secretariat.

Another nicety; I shall be able, for the first time in years, to get away for Christmas. Ruthie has offered to host, and Phil and I are finally in a position to travel. I doubt it shall be a Bolingbroke Christmas of the old kind, all tinsel, and baubles and mountains of gifts, but no doubt Ruthie and Mark will make a fair go of it for the children's sakes. I, for one, am looking forward to it. Up to and including not having to extemporise a sermon Christmas Eve that no one has any ear for.

Having said that, I have every confidence that you are even now penning a sermon that demands attentiveness. A rare gift that, and definitely your portion of the Spirit. With that in mind, may you ever be well, do good work, and keep in touch.

Jo

* * *

 _Thank you to all of you for reading and/or reviewing of late. This week in light, inconsequential trivia, because I'm thinking we need it, a wee note on hymnody. Anyone who grew up singing 'Jerusalem the Golden' - mentioned above - as I did, to the tune Ewing, will be interested to know it's original setting was Aurelia. Aurelia now is more usually paired with 'The Church is One Foundation', or, as the Anglo-Catholics have it, 'This Church is Mighty Spikey.' If you want a laugh at a good bit of doggerel, go look that one up. It's excellent fun. That concludes One Song to the Tune of Another; Ecclesiastical Edition (apologies to Humphrey Littleton). See you shortly!_


	25. Chapter 25

New Manse,  
Glen St Mary,  
January, 1933

Jo,

A happy New Year! We spent ours freezing on the Ingleside veranda, ringing it in with pots and pans while Susan looked scandalised. Hector did a game job of clobbering a skillet with a pair of tongs, and Miss Abby was very musical about hitting a lid against a saucepan. It was Di's idea; something they used to do back at Swallowgate, I understand.

It was – well, it almost felt celebratory. I hadn't altogether expected that, and it was an unexpected gift this season. It began more something to enliven the children than anything else, but in the end their enthusiasm was catching, and we may yet round a corner into gladness some far off day.

But what I wanted to tell you – the thing I haven't had the nerve to tell Ingleside – is that the baby has arrived. Carl's telegram was very brief. _Her name is Iris._ We are assured Una's letter will follow duly with further particulars.

We should be able to tell Ingleside, shouldn't we? After all, we aren't walking on egg-shells around them, or aren't meant to be. That would include passing on the news of the birth of Iris Meredith to the Trinity House Merediths, January 23, 1933. Logically. And yet, I find I cannot broach the subject at all. It sits heavily between us, some dense, incommunicable morass I cannot find my way out of. _My tongue cleaveth to the roof of my mouth_ or something. Rosemary says it is the same with her. She has been over to Ingleside any number of times since word came, for Ladies' Aid, for tea, and has been unable to say anything. She sits in the parlour with Anne and Susan – Di too, when she's there – and they talk of Dulce, Hector's recovery and Abby's continued pursuit of musicality, but not about Iris.

We _ought_ to boast of her, and to that end, your daughter is on the receiving end of many rhapsody, and very good she is about it, too. In fact, I suspect her of feeling much the same; she ran straight to us when her own telegraph came, positively jubilant. I shall forever picture her now at that injunction, _Shout, oh daughter of Jerusalem_. I know what it looks like; I have seen it on her face. She's only sorry the girls won't grow up together. We comfort one another by theorising that there are further visits in store to the ACS by Fred and herself, and almost certainly a chance of them coming to us some far off day.

I mustn't go without once again expressing my gladness that you aren't to be taken from Patterson St after all. We have that to hold on to at least. No doubt Sam's girls were sorry to be cheated of your full-time presence, but after all, Martyrs' Manse has ever been your home. And of course it is still a manse. As long as you are there, then so is God. Besides, what else would we call it? Nothing would stick.

Love and blessings,

J.M.

* * *

New Manse,  
Glen St. Mary,  
January, 1933

Una's letter has arrived, photos inclusive. It makes for exhilarating reading, or it did when we finally got past staring starry-eyed at the photos. She really is a beautiful baby. Solemn-looking, like her mother, but beautiful. Pearly and sleek, and with eyes like water without moonlight, deep and dark, and lovely.

In a turn that no longer surprises me, the doctor refused to come. The reason given was something suitably vague – the hospital being short-handed or something. Carl thought about going down to Edward VII and raling at them in person, but Carl has never raled properly at anything in his life, or not that I recall. He knew, and Una knew, and Li knew all too well that it would have been another question entirely had this been _Una's_ baby. No amount of indignation was going to change that. And there was never a question of getting the Chinatown doctor. Li hasn't been near the place in years – can't go near it, I think, for fear of what would happen. In the end, Una summoned one of her ACS colleagues and they oversaw the delivery between them in the Trinity House bedroom. They've done their share of deliveries for local women, so that was nothing new. Gil has always said it's different when it's family, though, and I tend to think that Una would now second him. She writes she was very relieved when it proved uncomplicated. No mention was made of our latest brush with unhappiness, but no doubt it was very near the front of her mind in the moment.

There is also a thorough explanation of the name, though it really needs none. Irises are a favourite of Li's, Carl's too. I would like to hazard they were out in the botanic gardens when she and Carl first met, but Rosemary tells me it was entirely the wrong season. It is _her_ idea they were Carl's first gift to Li, and as that rings a bell, I'm disinclined to argue. I do remember that Una's girlhood name for them was Trinity Flowers, because of the triune clusters the petals make, so that fits.

They all adore her. Well, all but Puck. As established, Puck loves only Carl. Akela guards her cot, and Una lets him. Nenni actually sleeps _in_ the cot, curled around her especially noisy kitten. I made mention of this last time I spoke to Larkrise on the 'phone, and one of the girls said breezily, 'Just like the tabby cat at the manger!'

I suppose you know all about _that_? Or should I place it on the Fox Corner doorstep? Because I never grew up hearing anything about tabby cats at the Nativity. In fact, it reminds me, I have an appointment with my study to peruse books for mention of it. I'll be sure to pass on what I find.

Love and blessings,

J.M.

* * *

Martyrs' Manse,  
Kingsport,  
February, 1933

John,

I do not think what you describe to be at all strange. Grief is such an amorphous thing; it is difficult to know when and how far it has permeated, or ebbed away as the case may be. And when it comes to Ingleside presently, I cannot decide if they are living or merely existing. I was going to write that I had known both, but then, so have you, and that more lately than I ever did.

I suppose, over the years, they have told you about Joy? Two things stick very plainly in my head about that loss; the first that we couldn't be there for it – that that was all Leslie, Cornelia and Cptn Jim, who got them through the worst of it. We wrote, a little, of course, and I still can picture Marilla Cuthbert's handwriting, the letter she sent Phil, how tonally disjunct it was from anything Anne would write. But the second, larger thing, was how reluctant we were to share any of _our_ news. Sam and Jake would have been very young, and Phil expecting Andrew. To say so, though, seemed somehow uncharitable. Joy was, reading between the lines, so much more than a first baby. That too, but also a tangible proof of happiness, love, dreams long-cherished. And we couldn't even be there at the leave-taking because between the Secretariat and our nascent economy, there wasn't the means to travel like that. We couldn't go because I was in the throes of relaying the church floor, rethatching the Caxley roof, and petitioning the Secretariat to make the Food Ministry an ongoing endeavour. We had two young children and an insufficiency of money. We couldn't go because we were afraid of landing on the wrong side of a parish that hadn't yet made up its mind about us. None of it felt nearly good enough justification. It never does.

Of course, babies being what they are, we couldn't go on _not_ saying anything, because eventually this one was going to appear and explaining why we hadn't said was somehow worse than the actual revelation. It showed…a lack of faith, for want of a better word.

You'd think, having written all of that, that I would have some concrete answer to hand you. I haven't, for which my apologies. Know I'm thinking of you, and of them, and have every confidence that the opportunity will present itself to pass on news of Singapore without treading on anyone's toes. When that happens, you might even find they're glad of it.

I had a letter from the university the other day about the chaplaincy. What with the absorption of Martyrs' and Waterford into Rev Hannigan's parish, he no longer feels he can do it justice, and would I like the position. I'm more than a little stunned they thought of me. Though I suppose that is no great thing. The candidates have to be Presbyterian, I understand, and with Rev Hannigan opting out, that doesn't leave them many in-parish people to choose from.

The thing of it is, I'm not sure I _do_ want it. What could I possibly have to say to so many young people? I don't even know how to reach my boys half the time when shadows fall over them. Even Naomi loses me, on occasion. She was homesick – no other word for it – for Singapore this holiday, and I could see that well enough, but what good did _seeing_ it do? I can talk till I'm blue in the face about how glad I am to have her back, how relieved I am that she's miles away from all that trouble with China; Mao and the Japanese, and all the rest, but that doesn't lessen the ache of it, does it? Fred Arnold had it about right, I think, when he said the place gets into your blood and stops you forgetting it.

Anyway, he ended by saying they would probably take a mission group over to visit in and around the Jubilee, if only to catch up with friends, adding that in the meantime, the Glen is beginning to feel like another home. That will be _your_ doing, as much as anyone else's, so plainly you are doing something right. All those lengthy talks over tea about Asiatic geography and mutual friends, I shouldn't wonder. Keep it up, won't you? Do the thing I can't seem to be able to.

May you ever be well, do good work, and keep in touch.

Jo

* * *

Ingleside,  
Glen St Mary,  
March, 1933

Jo,

I suppose your house is likewise full of opinions about the political climate? The phone has been ringing off the hook ever since news came in, and I blame your daughter for her thorough coverage of the German election. _Hitler Makes Gain but still Short Majority_ is exactly the kind of subhead to get itself talked about. Ed Morris was up the other day and I hinted he might move her on to something mundane and leave International News to less capable people.

'Like what?' said Ed, 'Housekeeping Advice? Even if Naomi _would_ do it, it would be terrible business policy.'

It was hard not to laugh at that. Of course, then I remembered that this came on the heels of all that turbulence in China – neither she nor John will let me forget – and that sobered us both. Susan is back to writing letters, which Anne and I endorse inasmuch as it's a sedentary activity. It's also, in all probability, terrible for her nerves. On the other hand, if it makes another generation of children laugh, which it does, I can hardly complain. We need a good laugh. Even if I suspect Anne is right about Germany listing gently away from democracy. Especially if she's right.

Incidentally, I don't know who's suggested to you that university work wouldn't suit you, but I've a bone to pick with them. So has John, and he usually leaves that to me. Anyway, you can kindly disregard the dolt that said so. For proof that this should be the case, I gesture at _my_ children, both of whom you got to pin their colours to Martyrs' these last few years. This is a negligible thing only to persons who have never met Jem, and do not realise that he was never made a member of the church in the first place.

Lest you think me completely thick, I am well aware that some of that owes as much to the women involved in that equation as anything else. But it plainly isn't the whole, otherwise Shirley probably would have been swallowed by Sacred Heart years ago, and Susan really would have had a fit. And the last time Faith persuaded Jem into a thing he didn't want to do was never. No, you created in that church a people and a community that others couldn't help embracing. I don't believe Jem ever grasped John's studied theology, and I _know_ the Elect have never made sense to Shirley, if the rest of it did. But fellowship, and what I've heard Rosemary call _Conversion by Teacup_ – that made sense. You offered them that. Works, and reasons and a concrete way of being at the heart of a thing that wasn't all doctrine. That is no small thing. I venture that is exactly what students need. They are sermonised at on a near-daily basis. Go on, give them Food Ministries and Fish Suppers, and Red Cross Hampers intended for the baking Prairies. I don't suppose it will be an overnight influx, but you might be pleasantly surprised, you and them.

Don't you remember how I half-killed myself over that Cooper Prize? It can't be only me. Find my inheritor, Jo, and give him an alternative that's a bit less brutal, won't you? Make them laugh with stories of choral schisms and bell tower carpentry. Warn against the bureaucracy of Heritage Trust Applications. Shock them with extemporary sermons on life rather than lectionary, and for goodness' sake, prove that not all learning comes out of a book. Academics are forever forgetting to say so.

I happen to have all of this on the brain, as I have been talking with Faith, who tells me Bruce is at that stage where one starts to shift from double- and cross-checking diagnoses to trusting instinct. It's a terrifying shift to make, and not easy to learn. But a crisis or two with time against you tends to pull you there whether you intended to go, or not. Add to which I have been watching Alastair working 'round the clock to finish the new room for Hector, and it's difficult not to think back on those Cooper Prize years. At the rate he's going, Hector should be able to move in come the summer. I don't know how he will take it, much less Abby. She's taken to sleeping with him of nights, or at least ending up asleep there. She never starts in his room, but inevitably it seems, one or the other wakes from a nightmare and she goes to him, and they fall back asleep in each other's arms.

Wit had gone on like that a while – I don't think we've had a night clear of nightmares since the summer – until Anne went in to look in on Hector the other night. She went barefoot, and noiseless as a leaf on the wind, so was just in time to catch them whispering to one another about the little sister that watches over them. The way they talk, the children have pretty well integrated her into their world-view, and the games they play; sort of a mundane reel of three for two children and a ghost.

Susan was alarmed, Di convinced it wasn't healthy, Anne thought it wasn't worlds away from her Katie Morris. In the end I told them about Laura, and the babies that proceeded he, and how in the long years before Anne, I used to play games with them – a whole host of imaginary playmates who almost weren't. I don't know what Susan made of that, but Di relaxed thereafter, so that was all right.

Anyway, Susan didn't get long to fret about it, because shortly thereafter word came Fox Corner is due another baby. Naturally we are all pleased, but no one more so than Susan, as she can finally stop worrying about Iain being spoiled. Honestly, Jo, a less spoiled child I don't know. He's had his share of scrapes, granted – they usually involve animals – but they tend go hand in hand with a lecture at the very least. Susan would appear to be the exception, and spent last week's call to Fox Corner trying to persuade Shirley that it was entirely reasonable for Iain to buy a young goat off of Cal Everdean. A _goat_! Suggestions this would only arouse the interest of the resident foxes was met with a sniff. Apparently goats are very clever animals and it would be good for Iain to train one. Logic that out at your leisure.

Goats notwithstanding, she is even now knitting up the usual blanket with teddy-bear pattern that she has knit every baby in the collection. This one is in white and green, whereas the last one was in yellows and browns. About which, Di has boxed up the baby things and is readying them for a parcel. Anne looked a bit askance when she found her in the midst of this, but Di only said there wasn't any further need of them.

'You can't know that, darling,' said Anne.

Di said she did, and if I were a betting man, I'd take a stab as to how she can be that certain. I'm not, so I won't. Besides, I don't think it's _entirely_ a response to the events of last summer. Of course, some of it _is_ , and some of it is to do with the paper, but as Ed Morris is really head of that operation, that isn't the crux of it, either. No, we've had any number of long conversations about how best to organize our time to look after the children we _have_ got here, Di and I, over rounds of Othello in the study. Another baby would necessarily take away from all of that, and I don't think she wants that.

She said as much the other night, over a game of Othello. It began innocently enough; we were conferring over Nan's latest missive, and I was lamenting that the girls are _still_ being schooled from home. 'It can't be healthy,' I said. 'Think of how alone you were when Nan was off with one of her knots of girls and your Laura had moved away. You hadn't anyone else.'

'You're looking at it all wrong,' said Di. 'Look how close the girls are, to Nan and Jerry both. Mandy's better than anyone else, practically, at parsing her father. He can't bear crowds, but she can climb up into his lap unannounced, and suddenly he has time only for her.'

She wasn't wrong; I hadn't thought of it that way. Growing up, it seemed our children were always in a world of their own making. I'd hear about it in snatches between calls and over supper, in those few hazy moments when I caught up with Anne before drifting off to sleep. How Nan had bargained with God, Jenny Penny disappointed Di, Rilla's mortification at carrying a cake across the Glen. Nan and Jerry don't need the catch-up. They're perpetually in that world along with their girls, intimately acquainted with everything from the elves that live in our Sweetbriar (Miri's invention) to the culinary habits of Mandy's felt menagerie. Neither Anne nor I understood what it was about cakes that was so humiliating to Rilla. No one had to explain to Jerry what it was about the prospect of eating chicks by accident that horrified Mandy.

Tell me, Jo, when did the children get to be so wise?

Love ever,

Gil

* * *

Martyrs' Manse,  
Kingsport,  
March, 1933

Do you know, Gil, when you put it like that, I can almost see myself in the university chapel. Almost. Indeed, when I think on the advisory part of the enterprise, I can even see the logic in taking the placement. Then I think of the students all gowned of a Sunday, in the collegiate pews, of the Divinity Students with their aspirations towards Ministry, and recall that I would never get away with sermonising on life. They'll want fine-sounding stuff on the lectionary, I shouldn't wonder, and I could certainly try, but I don't think I'd be much good at it.

Anyway, there are other things to consider. I ran across Faith at Sam's the other day – trying to disentangle her girls from his – and we got to talking about The War. Specifically the men she had treated, and how the worst of it hadn't been the bone-setting, or the bandages, or even the severed limbs, but the fact that sometimes the best she could do was a half-remembered prayer and hold a hand as the soul fled. I gather there was a chaplain, but not with much regularity, and almost never the denomination of the person needing one. Not, I think, that that really matters, except to the person making the petition. Sometimes not even then. Sometimes though, it's terribly important.

'Anyway,' she said, never pausing for breath, 'years later and it's the same problem all over again. I thought it was a shortage of men, at the time, but clearly not. I guess I can say a decent Lord's prayer, and maybe remember the odd bit of introductory stuff, but there's lots of people who'd be glad of someone who knew what they were doing dropping in to say a prayer that really was a prayer. Lots of them aren't even dying.'

Well, that answered the question of Helen's eternal optimism, anyway. I'd always had half an idea she plucked it out of the heavens, sort of her inheritance instead of Tongues, or Interpretation or any of the other gifts. It may still be, but if that's true, it's her mother's gift also.

I don't know who I thought was doing the hospital round before. But there ought to be someone. I'll go in this week and see if there really is a gap that needs stemming.

It happens I had heard tell of your observation re Naomi's column. I can only suppose Ed Morris passed it on to her, or else Betty. Either way, she found it funny, and promises solemnly to work in a bit about silk embroidery next time she has cause to cover exactly what that man Mao is doing to China. She calls it a shadow block and apologises for the mixed metaphor, as I gather you only get those in quilts.

Anyway, what disturbs me about the German affair is that the man at the helm seems to be _clever_. I wouldn't like to guess at what he's planning, but I'm confident he _is_ planning something. So are the children. They argue it while their children play at what Ellie has dubbed _Murder They Wrote_ , which seems to be the police procedural version of Medic. It is not at all the same thing as Investigateers, in which my grandchildren do not participate, though yours still do. They have recruited Sophy to the cause, and she sees nothing wrong in sitting on her father's knee while Geordie Carlisle asks questions about how long it would take rigor mortis to set in if the body was found in a large refrigerator. Longer than normal, but then you probably knew that. All Sophy wanted to know was how big the refrigerator was. 'Bigger than a breadbox?' she said. 'Than an auto? Than a _house?_ '

Sophy, you will gather, has long since joined ranks with the Investigateers. After all, if they insist on appropriating Helen's dollhouse to recreate the crime scene, it would be nonsensical to expect anything less.

Be well, do good work, and keep in touch.

Jo

* * *

 _About the tabby cat in the manger; this is a particularly eclectic bit of mythology that I cannot find the origin of. The story goes that when Mary worried Christ would take cold in the manger, a tabby cat climbed in and lay down next to him to keep him warm. In benediction, Mary touched her hand to the cat's forehead, and this is why all tabby cats have that M on their foreheads. As I say, no idea where it came from, but my cat-worshiping Scottish Episcopals loved it. If anyone can do one better on a source, let me know! As ever, love to all of you reading and/or reviewing._


	26. Chapter 26

_With thanks, always, to all of you reading and/or reviewing. But an extra shout-out here to Kslchen, who gives me the most eclectic writing prompts. You'll know this one when you see it._

* * *

Ingleside,  
Glen St, Mary,  
April, 1933

Jo,

Your last letter was asking after the children. We never did send Hector back to school after Christmas; aside from anything else there was no way of getting him there except in my arms, and no way to provide for him once there, which wasn't tenable at all. We're still finessing details of a chair, you understand. And even once that was sorted, well, you know Glen weather. Nothing like snow and mud to keep him home. At this rate, Anne's degree is getting a first-class polishing, though she doesn't mind to look at her. The reasons and circumstances, perhaps, but not the excuse to inspire a love of _The Oxford Book of Children's Verse_ in a young mind or two. Three, if one counts Dulce, and everyone here does count Dulce.

Speaking of Dulce, she's as bad as Miss Abby for adhering to poor Hector, if not worse. I tried to take her on a ramble through the Maple Wood the other day, and she absolutely would not go. She planted her feet on the verandah and like the tree by the water's edge would not be moved. At first I thought it was the lead, so removed that. Once I had, she bolted directly back into the house, and up the stairs, where she lay down on Hector's bed.

It turned out he'd had a bad morning; had woken up and forgotten his legs didn't work, and had fallen in pursuit of a book. Tears and a slew of vexations followed that neither Anne nor Susan, nor poor Abby could assuage, though they all gave it a go. I'd missed the lot of this, having been up at Four Winds, setting a break in little Tom Pagett's arm. Anyway, Dulce, newly liberated, laid her head on his knees and proceeded to very thoroughly wash Hector's hands for him. This did what no one else had yet done and got a smile from him, so I relented about the walk, and settled down in my armchair to spend the remainder of my free time with _Have His Carcass._

Have you read it? Lest you have not, I will say only that I saw the ending coming a clear mile away, but only, I suspect, because of my medical training and Mother's fascination with Victoria's relatives. Phil _must_ have read it by now, and I'm confident she'll agree when I say Harriet and Peter spend the book being awful to each other. Do ask her for me, won't you?

And, lest I forget in the confusion of existing, a happy Easter in due season. We're short our Wandering Merediths this year. Persis has offered to host her Fords, we won't see them either. I cannot imagine how she will fit the lot of them into George St, and nor can anyone else, but no one challenged the arrangement. Jims', telling me of it over the 'phone, says the little boys are positively giddy with anticipation of it.

I'm sorry about it, as it means I must go in search of new and innovative means to lure Abby out-of-doors and away from the house now the weather's turned. Miri could do it in a heartbeat, but as her family are spending Easter in Vancouver – with a visiting _Stella_ of all people – that is out of the question.

Did I tell you about that? Nan and Jerry hadn't been at the new house days before she dropped in with one of her crumbles and a pot basil by way of a housewarming offering. Anne had written to her that the children were coming. She was 'shocked and horrified' (Stella's words) that we all failed to anticipate her being on hand to greet them on arrival. Really, we should have expected nothing less. I blame the half-a-dozen other things preoccupying us at the moment.

Don't let that prevent you from sending a full report of the Bolingbroke Easter. We haven't had one of those since the year Hetta died, and I trust Ruthie to uphold all the old traditions to a tee. Besides, I always have time for one of your letters.

Love ever,

Gil

* * *

Martyrs' Manse,  
Kingsport,  
June, 1933

Gil,

I suppose you will have heard from the children that Kitty has set out for Toronto? Christopher has been keeping me well apprised of the date of departure, so after giving Larkrise the first evening to themselves, I called in, only to find a lot of despondent Investigateers making minimal progress in the strange death of Barwick Green.

I called in again today and missed everyone but an exasperated Jem and Teddy, who had lost the last hour to fending off a new and intrepid reporter, anxious for the details of the case. It seemed a terrible idea to ask what Miss Catherine Foster had been like on first impression, so I sat at that spindly-legged table and let them vent. They were settling into the heart of it when the Inspector came in with a list of the latest grievances from the same quarter. Teddy made him tea without ever breaking stride in the venting process, which was quite remarkable, all things considered.

I managed to catch Shirley arriving as I was leaving, and so risked asking _him_ what Kitty had been like in the days before she was Kitty to them. He blinked at me, a bit dazedly and said, 'I thought you knew. She was never anything else.'

When things have cooled a little, I really must get that story from somebody. Probably Fox Corner, as anything else is likely to further traumatise the young gentleman now covering the police beat for _The Chronicle_. To say Jem and Teddy were forever joking about the havoc Kitty used to wreak on the Inspector, I've never seen him less sanguine. Nor the others. Though I suppose that's only to be expected.

Meanwhile, I am assured by your children that the worst part of all of this is that there is no hope of Kitty joining with them on this year's excursion to Ingleside, as she will be settling in at _The Globe_. I hadn't realised she had never missed the trip until Christopher said. It makes me newly indignant with the teacher who took Helen to task for calling Kitty a sister, even if that was years ago.

Things are bound to settle. They always do. Well, soon you'll be seeing them for yourself and can send me an update on how they progress.

Be well, do good work, and keep in touch.

Jo

* * *

Ingleside,  
Glen St Mary,  
June, 1933

Jo,

It certainly _isn't_ the same without Kitty. She telephoned Larkrise on arrival to say she had got there in one piece, as predicted, that Judith's baking had been delicious as ever, that the new flat smelled strongly of cabbage, and that Cass had called round within an hour of her arrival with stew to reheat, meat from the butcher, and assorted dairy.

Inquiry from Kitty – because naturally Cass got the full Inquisitorial treatment – revealed that the stew was hers, that she had got the date of Kitty's arrival from Jims, and that she was expected at the George St flat the following night for dinner. Pressed by assorted devotees, Kitty further said she was adopting Rosedale Presbyterian at Persis' recommendation, and for the sake of knowing some of the congregants, and that she makes nearly as many cups of tea at this paper as she ever did at _The Chronicle._ She adds that Cass was indignant about having _her_ recommendation, for some place called St Mary Magdalene, disregarded on behalf of the conductor. He's a composer, as well as choir director, and apparently good at it – Healey-Willan or some name like that. Not one I knew, but Rosemary was positively awed by the revelation Cass knew the man to speak to. So was Bruce, when he heard of it. Miss Alice Caldicote gave a look that mirrored my confusion and made me feel better about being in the dark. She's clever, Bruce's Alice, and if she hasn't heard the name, neither should anyone else not versed in all things musical. Little Anthony has though; he's taken to accompanying Cass to church in the name of the music. Leslie jokes he's halfway to being Episcopal because of it, and if Cass's scheme to install him in the choir goes ahead, he may yet make the leap completely.

Leslie made the mistake of saying this where Susan could hear her, and was soundly scolded for it. Apparently _none_ of little Rilla's children would _ever_ desert the Presbyterian church, be other people's choirs ever so good. It just wouldn't _happen_. Anthony would come to his senses and go back to attending church with his family the way God intended little boys to do, and we would never have to worry about that Healey-Wilan person or Old Roy (Rosemary parses this as Oldroyd) again.

There Susan had to break off, as it occurred to her to wonder how Anthony was getting to Cass and 'That Other Place' to begin with. No one dared volunteer the information that Anthony had become an expert navigator of the Toronto Transit System lest she have an apoplexy on the spot. Rilla doesn't like it much either, if it comes to that, and Persis assures me that's the Islander in her. Cass meets Anthony off the tram, and Persis sticks him back on it after lunch, and Liam meets him off the other end, so all told, he couldn't be in safer hands.

Elswhere, as you must have heard, Alice Caldicote is holidaying with the Merediths, a circumstance which has proved exceedingly fortuitous. We are under what is now the annual summer wave of polio cases, and the more hands the better. I tried to apologise for pressing her into service over her break, but she gave me a smile like a moonbeam and said staunchly, 'Nonsense! Why do you think I came?'

And while we're on the subject of polio, do you remember back in the days of the 'flu how there were advertisements to keep boilers high and windows open? I want a similar slogan that will keep the children out of the water. Probably impossible in the current heat, but worth trying. By way of appeasing your daughter, I have suggested she leave off all mention of silk shading in her columns and instead contrive a suitably eye-catching motto. The _look_ I got for my trouble! But then she laughed and said she hated headlines, was always handing them over to the subeditor to write. Apparently there is a special circle in hell where people do nothing but invent headlines. I'd ask Kitty for her opinion, but I won't have her 'phone number until the Kingsport Contingent put in an appearance, so you will have to wait on that one. Anyway, the odds favour her agreeing. Naomi and Kitty generally side together. So much so that Naomi tells me that when I _do_ get in touch I can pass on that no one at _The Glen St Mary Echo_ would be demanding cups of tea from Kitty, if she wrote for _them_. I will, but it won't bring Kitty to us. She's bound for greatness that one, and I give her all of ten years before she's running _The Globe_ , I really do. Possibly five years.

Kitty aside, what children we can muster will be down shortly; this includes Nan and Jerry, who have made arrangements to stay up at the Old West House. Nan's idea, as this will enable them to visit without always being in the thick of things. Hector and Abby are wildly excited about the chance to see their cousins again, as is Di. As am I. We aren't likely to get them out this way for Christmas, but they mean to stay all through the summer so Jerry can touch up a still he started previously of the Old Byrant House with its new colours.

We're even getting the Fox Corner lot for the second summer in a row – all but unheard of – because in present circumstances a trip to Scotland is really out of the question. In another life travelling altogether would have been unheard of, but like so much else, that too has changed.

I am, as expected, glad. If you don't hear from me this side of autumn, you'll know why. But then, no doubt your hands will be full in any case, between visiting grandchildren and hospital visits, or what have you. Keep us updated, and I'll try my best to reciprocate.

Love ever,

Gil

* * *

Ingleside, July, 1933

Iain's latest ecclesiastical escaped is, and I quote, 'pastoring the hens.' He was supposed to be feeding our lot for Susan but got distracted, so that when Shirley finally went in search of him, Iain was standing on the lawn sermonizing to the hens. Shirley, proving himself more like Dad than he ever was like me, took this all very seriously and asked what exactly had the hens so fascinated.

'I'm making them like God,' said Iain, as if it were obvious. 'Because God is supposed to be like a hen with its chicks, isn't He? But He can't be like our hens if our hens don't believe in God, and they won't believe in God if no one tells them about Him. So, I have to pastor the hens.'

Shirley, drawing on reserves _I_ should never have had, said that was all very good work, but perhaps now Iain could see if there were any eggs – godly or otherwise – to collect? How he did it without so much as smiling, I'll never know. But he had a good laugh about it with me in the study afterwards.

'I never did that, did I?' he asked.

'What,' I said, 'pastor hens? I should think not. We didn't keep any in those days.'

Shirley gave me the kind of look that made it clear I'd missed the point, but we ended by laughing again. I even relented to concede that no, none of _my_ children had felt the need to make converts of our animals.

I suppose they have to do something to fill the time though, having been given strict orders to keep well away from the water. To that end, Mandy orchestrated a sand-castle building competition, which has shown up some interesting results. Surprising exactly no one, the Kingsport little ones grouped together, the Fords made up a separate team, and our Ingleside babies joined forces with your Joanie and Pip. Mandy, Miri and Jims were judges and it was declared a success second only to the church fete. We adults weren't called in until the end, to see the end results. There were some spectacular towers, and seaweed vines. I took in very little; I was too busy glorying in Hector and Abby out in the sun again. They've both got far too pale these last few months. It was good to see Joanie acting as Hector's hands, better still to see Abby running after Miri into the waves, hear her squeal when the surf leapt up to meet her.

There is talk among them now of a play, but with the Kingsport Contingent due back so soon, I doubt they will get to it. Though perhaps the remainder can give it a stab anyway. Certainly it has been a long time since we have been treated to armature theatrics.

Love ever,  
Gil

* * *

New Manse,  
Glen St Mary,  
July, 1933

Jo,

You were asking about the church fete. It really wasn't anything out of the ordinary, to which end I rather wonder at Gil mentioning it. The paper made the usual fuss, but I'm inclined to think they're making up for all those years we were under the Lowbridge Newspaper Empire and being cheated of any relevant coverage.

For what it's worth, Naomi's Victoria Sponge took third place at the cakes stall, for which achievement Fred and the children were triumphant. I am, therefore, inclined to think you know this already. Mary's roses took no place at all, and her nose is very out of joint. She shows this chiefly by declining to talk to me after service, although I had nothing whatever to do with the judging of the flower and produce stall. That was all Cornelia, Susan and Ellen, and the miracle there is really that the three of them agreed on anything. Anyway, the first prize went to the Mable Forbes for her Delphiniums. It was a five dollar prize, and I really do not see how anyone can grudge the Forbes family that. Especially when the flowers were very nice to look at. The headlines say the banks are looking up, but I don't believe them. Does Sam? I might trust _him_.

Even so, I have since been told that Olive Kirk is defecting to the Lowbridge church, where her botany will be suitably appreciated, that Irene Howard has changed her mind about the donation she was planning. Irene Howard has been planning that donation for years, and never making it. As Rosemary says, we can hardly miss what we don't have.

Oh, and they've introduced a jewelry stall, which is presided over by Florrie Clow, whose father used to work for the Lowbridge jeweler. There were some very fine offerings, as people tried their hand at crafting homemade ornaments. Amy Crawford – McAllister as was – took first in that one with a pair of earings she had fashioned out of some of her mother's old jewlerry. The surprise though, was Jo Milgrave taking second place for an enamel brooch in peacock feather shape; no one had any idea he had that sort of talent. There were several offers for it, but he was resolute in his insistence it was a gift for Miranda. Rilla thought this quite a lovely gesture, and assures me the blues in it will suit Miranda's eyes.

You were also asking after the play. I think there was some talk of the children putting on _Midsummer Night's Dream_ , but Miri couldn't abridge it sufficiently, and once we'd seen off Faith, Shirley and families, it left a sparse cast to work with and an impossible degree of doubling. Alice and Bruce were game to join in if the children would have them, but apparently they are 'much too grown up for games' (this verdict from Liam by way of an indignant Burce) and anyway, they really hadn't the time, between polio cases and the garden variety childhood scrapes and mundanities.

Instead, we got what the children call 'Performance', which is a kind of presentation of mixed talents. Miri gave us one of Helena's speeches, Liam extemporised a lecture on kinship tables, and Anthony began by playing us a version of _Midnight Special_ which metamorphed along the way into a proper sing-song. Selections included _There's Cauld Kail in Aberdeen_ , where all but the Kingsport wee ones and the McNeillys tripped over the words, _Road to the Isles_ , where again, all but the same forgot to snap the rhythm, and a lusty rendition of _Oh, When the Saints._

I know that Rilla doesn't much care for the banjo, but it's portable, and Anthony is remarkably good at it. Better still at getting even the most reluctant person to join in the singing, which is a skill in itself. Years of trying to corral reluctant congregations into unwieldy hymns has taught me this. Somehow though, it didn't matter about the botched words or wayward rhythms. We all came away whistling, singing, buoyed by the shared experience of the music. I couldn't say why, exactly, but there's something heart-lifting in music that I can't put my finger on. Rosemary might be able to do it, or even little Anthony, but it eludes me quite as if it were a foreign language.

Be sure you tell Iain when you next see him that the Ingleside hens miss their daily dose of theology, or Golden Verse, or whatever he was teaching them. They are, according to Carl, very social animals, and I don't suppose Susan, or anyone else, had cared to spend whole mornings in their company before.

He also tells me that Iris is beginning to be at Rilla once dubbed the 'creeping stage' back in the days of Jims's infancy. She slithers along the floor on her stomach, occasionally stealing peanuts from a disgruntled Puck, or ambushing Akela and Nenni, and reminds Carl of nothing so much as a benign snake. They are considerably more tolerant than Puck, which is not unreasonable, when one considers God never intended peanuts for infants not yet teething. Li has a terrible time chasing after her and staging strategic interventions. Li tells me that they make frequent trips to the botanic gardens for the sake of Puck's nerves, and hers also. Apparently Iris is quite taken with the way the grass feels on her stomach as she propels herself through it. A good sign, apparently. Neither Una nor I knows what either parent would do with a daughter that had no appreciation for botany. They'd love her just the same, I'm sure, but this is really her inheritance from them, as much as any language or devotion to animals.

I have heard nothing further of Money Lending or similar scrapes. Shall I rightly take it that none have been forthcoming? If so, I can only express my perplexity at the general placidity of children of Faith and Jem especially. I had anticipated at least one corralled pig by now – but perhaps that is a village prank. At any rate, I have every confidence in Evie and company to inspire chaos. Here's hoping she, they, and you are all well.

Love and blessings,

J.M.

* * *

 _50 years after his death, this Torontonian couldn't resist the shout-out to James Healey-Wilan, who from St Mary Magdalene, Toronto, massively altered the Anglican choral landscape. His organ is still in good working order, as is the church, and the settings he wrote. Go have a listen; they are gloriously singable (and more ambitious than Oldroyd!)._


	27. Chapter 27

Ingleside,  
Glen St Mary,  
September, 1933

Jo,

Forgive the delayed response. It's been a busy autumn; polio has given way to varicella, and with Bruce and the others all returned to Kingsport, I am back to trying to run the practice on my own. It's always a jolt after the summer, of course, but it seems it gets worse every year. Or perhaps I'm still feeling the after-effects of last summer.

We moved Hector down to his new room the other day, and that with great trepidation. It was supposed to happen quite months ago, but then life got in the way, and renovations got behind – don't they always – and here we are now.

I think I'd told you he's had nightmares pretty well every night since his recovery. Also that they appear to be contagious and that Abby is falling prey to them too. It was with great reluctance, accordingly, that Alastair and I shifted Hector's things downstairs the other day. Afterwards, we sat at the kitchen table, not quite hand-wringing. Susan found us there, doled out some of the strongest tea I had ever had, and said in the pouring of it, 'Not to worry, doctor, dear. Susan Baker will be right next door, that she will, and she will do her utmost to look after the poor mite. Do not be a bit worried on that score.'

I'd expected nothing less. Still, the admission left me wanting to cry. Though it's possible that was the tannin of the tea. Either way, I was too worn out with long nights, furniture hauling, and residual concern for the children's emotional health to have any energy left over for such a thing as tears.

Anne has indeed got hold of the Infants' Class curriculum, with a mind towards schooling Hector at home, at least until a better alternative presents itself. After all, it can hardly be a permanent arrangement. Naomi has been very good about augmenting the board's supplies with her old notes from her time up at the schoolhouse, and I was unsurprised to learn these were far more enlightening than anything the Board could offer. (These, like all good notes, include some interesting marginalia. I had forgotten, somehow, the year that Cora Martin insisted on including a model zebra in the Nativity scene they were building.)

Were circumstances different, I would probably be enduring a good deal of gentle teasing from Nan on this subject. You'll recall I've never been entirely easy about Miri and Mandy learning all their lessons at her kitchen table, or else while out on a nature walk with her or Jerry. As it is, she's only written Anne novel-length letters with reflections and notes on those same lessons in an effort to be helpful.

Alastair, having finished with Hector's room, is now drawing up planning proposals to bring before the council about the installation of pavement in our little community. We haven't much hope of it going through, the Glen ever being the country cousin to Lowbridge, but it's worth a try. After all, it would provide much-needed jobs if Alastair can get the idea across, and that's not to be sniffed at. If it happens to make the trip to school more accessible for Hector, so much the better. Not least because Abby continues to stick to him limpet-fashion. We're deeply sensible that if we can't do something to get him to the schoolhouse, we'll never get her there either. At least, not without tantrums and tears.

Perhaps the brightest spot of these last few weeks has been the regularity with which your Joanie comes barrelling through the door, an especially ebullient sunbeam as she sheds coat, satchel and shoes en route to Hector's room. There she convenes with Hector and Abby and they lose hours to I Spy, assorted card games, and chattering after a fashion to make our children look positively taciturn. The sound of it echoes and re-echoes off of Susan's kitchen, and up through the ceiling into my office. Often enough Betty's children come with her, and then Susan gets out what she calls the 'Children's China,' which is thicker and sturdier than our everyday stuff, and her inheritance from her mother, and they convene around the kitchen table to feast on monkey faces and cambric tea. The girls quirk little fingers and sit so stiff they look starched in an effort to appear grown-up, and we all have a terrible time trying not to smile at the picture they make. Once or twice, I've tried to join in, but am assured by Miss Abby that the convening of The Cricket Club (Naomi's name for it, and it's stuck) is a pursuit exclusive to young people. The first time I heard this I was delighted at being lumped with Bruce and Miss Caldicote, and said so.

'Oh, no,' said Hector, with eyes laughing, 'you're _ages_ and _ages_ older than _them_!'

That got Anne, Di and I to laugh as we haven't in months, I can tell you. It was so reassuringly _normal_ a declaration.

Though, talking of normalcy, tell me, have you decided on the chaplaincy offer? And what about the hospital – I seem to recall you were unsure of it last time we spoke, Write soon and give me things to mull over that aren't the vexations of varicella, please!

Love ever,

Gil

* * *

Martyrs' Manse,  
Kingsport,  
October, 1933

Gil,

News of the Cricket Club had quite passed me by! Consider my thoroughly left out. As Phil says, one can practically hear the chirruping they get up to from here. I hope you pointed out that that piece of alliteration neatly disproved Naomi's theory about headlines and her inability to compose them.

Any word on the planning permission for the installation of pavement? I am inclined to think there cannot be, as otherwise Naomi might have mentioned it. But then, as this is local news and not her remit, it may be possible she has not heard.

Here, Phil has developed a cough and is very cross at the fuss Ellie and I make of her. She is convinced it is nothing, and I very much hope she is right. As it gets in the way of her swallowing, much less eating anything, I am disinclined to agree. Bruce agrees with me, as does Alice Caldicote. As I do not like being proved right, contrary opinions are more than welcome.

Offer them as you see fit as you continue to be well, do good work, and keep in touch.

Jo

* * *

Fox Corner,  
Kingsport,  
November, 1933

John,

To think I almost didn't go. There were reasons not to. Susan was recovering from her latest turn, and Dulce was sure to miss me, Anne was battling the school about ease of access for Hector and his contemporaries, and I _knew_ there were people in Kingsport who could do the job just as well. Better, probably. But I had had Shirley on the 'phone and he'd said, _We'd much rather you, Dad._ Shirley, who never asks anything of me. And besides, turn or no turn, Susan was resolved on going, had had a bag packed for months, as it fell out.

We went, of course we did. As it transpired, we caught the inaugural Remembrance Service of the newly conglomerate Hope Park and Martyrs, and there was symmetry in that, because I was there when Jo took his orders, too. He was just out of training and I was just into medical school, the Cooper Prize still the talk of the college. We were both greener than new grass, only where I was terrified of making a hash of things, he stepped into procession behind that bible as if he had grown there. I thought of that the other day, watching his success wax poetic about the valour of our dead, and wondered what would become of his beloved Bundle Kirk. A whole people effectively washed out of existence. Can you imagine? But of course you can, you've probably written essays on the subject. Canaanites or Israelites or something. Shechem? You know I never could equal you for biblical history. But there must be masses of them.

But I was telling you about Fox Corner. Pilgrim's inheritor is a grim, grey creature, with a starched tail, battered ears and three very reliable legs. Shirley blames the missing hind leg on the resident foxes. He has about as much time for people not Mara as Pilgrim ever had, which is to say, none at all, and he answers to Innocent, a name I can only suppose to be ironic. This after he trotted in and dutifully laid a rabbit (headless) at Mara's feet not an hour into our visit. Susan was aghast, and ran to locate the things to clean it, shouting all the while that Iain mustn't touch it or he'd catch myxomatosis. Shirley, meanwhile, very coolly bundled it up in yesterday's newspaper and made for outside, Iain trailing diligently at his feet, prattling away what I _think_ is a prayer to be said over slaughtered animals. As my lack of Gaelic remains a point of perpetual entertainment to the grandchildren, I really can't be sure _what_ it was. Mara poured out tea, and judging from the fact that her sister never so much as blanched, I can only conclude this is an entirely usual order of business. Innocent, meanwhile, found a sun-spot and fell asleep in it, his labours ended for the day. Anne was heard to observe that this was one particular that made her less inclined to miss poor Rusty, and Susan reappeared to find herself superfluous.

It made for an eventful visit, especially when the rabbit was one-upped the following morning by the crow lovingly laid on my pillow. Proof, if ever it were wanted, that dead animals were par for the course at Fox Corner. Anne got only an over-wintering vole, and we are still not sure where that places us in the Fox Corner Hierarchy as per the Laws of Innocent. I made mention of this, and Iain launched into a gleeful recapitulation about how Innocent was heard regularly to go toe-to-toe with the local fox, an adventure somewhat curtailed by his mother's reminder that it really wasn't a breakfast-table narrative.

It wasn't long after that Jem dropped in with news of what he called Murder by Communion, bringing Geordie Carlisle with him. They had brought it to Fox Corner, partly to convene the Investigateers, partly because it affected one of the Sacred Heart people, and I suppose they thought Mara would have insights. I think all she succeeded in doing was thoroughly exasperating Inspector Carlisle by pointing out that it was entirely reasonable there should be no communion wine left to test.

'But it's _evidence_!' he said as if that made all the difference.

'It's the Blood of Christ,' said Mara, never missing a beat, 'and you can't leave it unfinished.' This sent Susan into spasms of Susan-ness, and Anne, Jem and I into bouts of badly contained laughter. Iain said only, 'Why? What do other people do with God's Blood?' He said it just like that, John; you could _hear_ the capitals.

'Well,' said Jem, recovering first, ' _we_ are allowed to pour it down the sink after church. I think,' and he looked for confirmation at Faith. Mara said, 'That's never right,' and Iain looked quite as horrified as Susan had moments before. I wondered idly how I ever thought nothing could top the pastored hens.

Further chaos followed. Shirley tried to get the lot of them back on track with mention of the new Department of Labour the province has planned, but that only got the lot of them arguing about politics instead of theology. Full marks to him for trying, though. Susan was far more successful in her waxing lyrical on MacDonald for standing up to the Germans. Apparently she always said they had no gumption and their departure from the League of Nations proves it. She then stalked off to write him a letter of approval.

You'll appreciate that after that lot, the delivery of the baby was almost quotidian. Almost. I still had the memory of Di's little girl stamped on the inside of my eyes, shrivelled with polio and blue with cold. Faith was there, and Jem was there, and Judith nearby, but I had Shirley's petition in my inner ear, _We'd much rather you, Dad._

Still, I hedged. Faith was there, and Jem. I opened my mouth to point this out, to say Judith was a stone's throw away in an emergency, and Mac the former police surgeon, and Mara got there ahead of me.

'No one,' she said, with a look like steel, 'is going to die.'

No one did die, either. No one even came close to dying. 'I told you so,' she said afterwards, accepting the baby from me, having earned every inch of the sentiment. Mara's sister was downstairs with Susan, wool in her ears, and I sent her to fetch the others back from wherever they had scattered to. Anne, who had commandeered the card table and made a desk of it, looked up from her writing and seeing me said, 'All well?'

'All manner of thing is well,' I said, which set her and Susan both off up the stairs to pay their dues. Susan muttering darkly about that not sounding like a Presbyterian sentiment, she was sure she had heard Fr. Emmery mention it last time he had called at Fox Corner, and that she would tie to.

I don't know what Iain makes of it. He was an only child for so long, but never actually alone. Hard to be, I think, with the unruly mob that is the conglomeration Carlisles, Blakes and our assorted grandchildren for company. Susan says she caught him peering over the cot rail the other day with a look of awe about him, and I quote, 'as if he'd never seen a baby before.'

Anne thinks that has less to do with novelty and more to do with the elfin look of this baby. She's as brown and bronzed as Iain ever was, but with her mother's way of seeming to see _through_ things. Jo finds it unsettling enough in the McNeilly adults; I shall be curious to hear his thoughts on its presentation in our Isobel.

Personally, I am more disconcerted by the lyrics of _Can You Sew Cushions_ as a lullaby. I was listening in on this ritual the other evening, and I am about ninety percent sure it's about leaving a baby to die in the wilderness. Only the Scots, John, honestly. Or perhaps it is only that I have had enough of dead and dying children. Mind you, given the gusto with which Helen was singing _Alloutte_ the other day, I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. At least I no longer need to wonder where her enthusiasm comes from!

See you shortly. Until then, all our love,

Gil

P.S. I have observed, while here, the usual Poppy Appeal in the shops, but also that one or two have augmented them with white poppies for a different collection. I don't suppose this means anything to you? I keep meaning to ask the children and then not liking to with Anne at my elbow.

* * *

Martyrs' Manse,  
Kingsport,  
December, 1933

John,

A year on and it's still odd to have Christmas open to spend as I will. This year it has also been grim. I've been stemming some of the gap with hospital work, and prison visits – more than usual, I mean – and Phil and I accordingly had organised a dinner for the men. They might be sentenced before the law, but that hardly means they aren't deserving of lovingkindness like anyone else. The trouble is that everything has suddenly become hard to get hold of. Even the usual parcels from Una only went so far – though you mustn't let on. She's given us back more than her share. It felt a bit like the early Martyrs' days, all the scavenging and wrangling just to get a bird to feed the masses. Gil had gifted us the latest offering of potatoes from the Forbes farm, and that helped tremendously, as did the Fox Corner runner beans, which have been on ice ever since harvest months ago. Shirley reckoned they had more than they knew what to do with, and thinking back on my experience of cultivating runner beans, that is not so hard to believe. What a blessing that drought didn't reach us, too.

I went down to Elie the other day, it being the midweek Food Ministry effort as previously mentioned. The council houses are finally up, and there is nothing left to prove Knox Church ever existed. I did ask after the stained glass, but no one was clear on what had become of it. I gather these details were not deemed relevant to the congregation. It was good to see them though, and to be doing. It wasn't an exciting meal by any means, but the fellowship is still there over the breaking of bread and ladling out of soup. Someone asked me to take the Grace and it was almost like old times.

They also asked a great deal after Phil, who was unable to attend as she was laid up with what I can only call a cough. It sounds little on paper, but in actuality is really quite alarming, not least because it's the same cough, so far as I can tell, as she had back in the autumn. She's never been sturdily built, and it rattles through her like a hurricane and leaves her trembling. I do not like it at all, though naturally Phil – who has always been staunch, if not sturdy – says it is nothing and accuses me of fretting. According to her my children never learned the fine art of clucking like hens from _her._

Tell Gil, as it strikes me I never did answer that last part of his letter, that the white poppies are for peace. Sort of a hope that there won't be another war, I think, and, as it seems, not without cause. We never had them before the mid-'20s, and I have half a memory your Una used to wear one with her red. She's probably the better person to look to for an explanation. Of course, in those days, she was one of the few to wear them. They're catching on with alacrity now, though. As the money goes towards increasing pensions, or some such, there may yet come a year when I take a side in the affair. After all, with no church affixed to me now, I'm allowed the luxury.

Be well, do good work, and keep in touch,

Jo

* * *

New Manse,  
Glen St. Mary,  
January, 1934

Jo,

I have been thinking on your last letter ever since Li's latest missive came through. Iris is a year old now, and beginning to stumble her way around the house and babble in several languages at once. Mostly what Li calls _Baba-Malay,_ which Una describes as a blend of Tamil, Chinese and English quite common in the city.

I've been reading all of this; her propensity to half-strangle poor Nenni, the way she rides Akela as other children do horses, her mimicry of Puck in her scaling the walls, and it strikes me that I should like to _meet_ her. Properly, I mean. Not just epistolary contact and the odd snap. The Presbytery owe me that sabbatical, and they know it, but they'll still be far more amenable to the idea if they aren't faced with the bother of calling an interregnum minister. It's a tremendous ask, but I don't suppose you'd consider it?

You already know the people, and I'd trust you with the parish. There would still be someone on hand to keep watch over Ingleside, and me informed of all the adventures at the paper. I've really become quite interested in the process, between your daughter's stories and Di's reports on it. And it would give you a good bit of time to sort things out, puzzle out what comes next.

Do think on it, anyway. Probably we wouldn't go anywhere until 1935, given that molasses in January have been known to move faster than a Presbyteriat confronted with the need to make a decision. If not, no matter. I know what your Bundle Kirk people are to you, whatever the status of the parish. And, of course, Phil's health must come foremost. Take your time over it. I'll put in for the sabbatical whatever happens. But I did want to run the idea by you.

Love and blessings,

J.M.

P.S. The application about the paving for the town centre has fallen through. Anne is exasperated, Alastair frustrated and Susan gloriously indignant. She proposes to take on the council herself, and I dare the council to stand up to her, I really do. Anyway, it means more kitchen-table lessons for Hector, and very probably Miss Abby too, unless something changes between now and September.

* * *

Martyrs' Manse,  
Kingsport,  
January, 1934

John,

Phil makes this your best idea to date. So much so that she stole the letter from me at the first mention of sabbaticals, and it was all I could do to get it back and work out the particulars. If the Presbytery and the Secretariat can agree – and here's hoping – you can tell them I'd be honoured to have care of the Glen church for the duration. Only, you must warn them that I really can't deliver your grade of sermon. They never were my forte. But I'll do my best by them if you let me try.

Be well, do good work, and keep in touch – wherever you find yourself.

Jo

P.S. Phil instructs me to pass on that she is 'grievously offended' at your insinuations against her health. The cough has quite cleared up. Her appetite, however, has not returned, which I make most atypical. I should probably give it time, or some such, and stop clucking hen-fashion.

* * *

 _A brief note on those white poppies, because I know they can be devisive and political. They were never that to me, nor are they here. In the context I became familiar with them it was the height of normal to see them pinned next to the red. They are, as Jo writes, a hallmark of peace. I include them for no better reason than thier history fascinates me and in affectionate tribute to the man who is still no doubt selling them even now at my old parish._


	28. Chapter 28

Martyrs' Manse,  
Kingsport,  
February, 1934

Gil,

We are drowning in parcels for Patterson St, postmarked your Glen. John says it is all Naomi's idea, that someone sent the story about the Cape Breton Fisheries being short on supplies her way and the whole thing snowballed, but I doubt that is the whole of it. The way _she_ tells it, it was much more communal an affair than John makes out. Whatever the origin, our fisheries desperately needed supplies, and very glad we are to have them now. I have lost this last fortnight to their distribution around the community – complicated, of course, by the lack of a church. This is why your last letter has so long languished on my desk.

Also, I believe this was exacerbated by little Emma trying to tidy the desk when last she dropped in, and in so doing rearranged the lot. Of course Phil nor I could find a thing for looking. This is plainly the combined influence of your Helen and Emma's mother. How Evie has dodged both of these is one of the universe's great, unanswerable questions.

On the subject of influences though, I hear through the grapevine that your Christopher is far better at doctoring than he admits. I suppose you heard about Faith roping him into a bout of impromptu surgery the other day? Nothing major, only one of the Maddox children ran amok of the horse chestnut in Old St John's, and thereafter appeared at Larkrise with a nasty gash on his knee. Well, Christopher told me with gusto that it _started_ at the knee and _ended_ near the shin. (Emphasis his.) Jem was out with the Inspector, and Helen over at the Carlisles, so Faith called for Christopher and got him to keep Georgie Maddox still while she sewed him up. In an addendum he neglected to pass on to me, Christopher never so much as changed colour. Just chatted blithely away about his upcoming book report and how unfair he thought it was the teacher had forbidden him talking on _Murder Must Advertise._ They compromised on _Biggles and the Camels_ , but that is not the same thing. These things come to me via Faith, who is daring to anticipate another doctor in Christopher after all. Not that she's let on to him. So I shouldn't worry on that score. You know what children are; they never want to do what has been done before if they can help it.

At least, this is what I used to tell Phil in the days when Ruthie was young and more Byrney than Gordon to look at. Phil could never work out where she got it – and yet, we came to be glad of it later, when Hetta was ailing and in need of a second pair of eyes, hands and feet. They'd never have got on half so well if Ruthie had been a bit different. I think Phil's even a bit glad she has a daughter to keep the old ways going, though I didn't tell you that, if she asks.

You were asking about the hospital work. I am still working on an answer for you. I don't dislike it, and I do find it to be satisfying work. It also makes for variety from the prison visits. But neither is it _my_ work, Gil. I don't quite know how else to put it. It will seem strange to say that I find most satisfaction in taking the impromptu services for the dying, but that is perhaps nearer the mark than anything I have yet written.

Odd, isn't it? I ministered for the years to the living. I even performed my share of sickbed visits, and never gave it a thought. They were even easy. But there is something about a hospital, the transitory nature of the tenure of the people I visit, that I cannot get to grips with. Perhaps it is only that many of my former parishioners could never run to the doctor's bill, except in offerings. I don't know. For the time being, I can feel the difference I make in doing it. That counts for something. But it's also oddly anonymous in a way my work has rarely been. That transitory feeling, I suppose. And you know me, know what people mean to me, the way they are synonymous with the Body of Christ. Know how I like to know my people by their names. As you observed so lately, my ministry was ever one of people. I haven't quite found that here.

Forgive me. It is good work. I know this. It may only be that I'm grieving Martyrs'. Ask me again in a couple of months and I may yet give you a completely different answer.

May you ever be well, do good work, and keep in touch.

Jo

* * *

Martyrs' Manse,  
Kingsport, April, 1934

Gil,

We will see you in Advent. John has sent for to say his sabbatical starts then, and I am making arrangements accordingly. Naomi is delighted at the prospect of having us so close, never mind up at the house for Christmas. All these years and she has never actually hosted us. It makes a longer trek for the rest of the children, of course, Ruthie in particular, but I do not think they will mind. Especially not as Ruthie's hands are presently full with young Villy. She's a wee thing, but she's got Ruthie's stubbornness to the bone, already. Phil says, eyes flashing, that turn about is fair play. Normally, I think Ruthie would object to this sort of declaration, but it is so like the Phil we know, that she endures it without a word. This in itself is disconcerting, as nothing could be less like Ruthie than placidity. But you heard right after all; that cough or whatever that had been plaguing Phil is indeed back, and with a vengeance. Alice has taken to dropping in evenings on her way home, and Bruce with her. Phil hates the fuss, obviously, but as she won't go to a hospital, it's the closest we have come yet to a compromise. She makes them tea, Alice suggests that hospital avoidance is one particular in which Phil need not emulate our former parishioners, Bruce accepts cake and adds in that they really are rather friendly places, hospitals. 'Sort of like churches,' he said the other night, 'always trying to do good works.'

That got a laugh, and then a bout of coughing, and an observation from Alice that the cherry cake really was too good to leave on its platter, and wouldn't Phil have a piece. Phil would not, and sent them on their way with a portion of cake apiece.

To which end, I think we're all rather hoping that a sojourn in the Glen will put Phil in contact with a doctor. Not, you understand, that I distrust Bruce, or even Faith. But I recall that you were once Phil's match for single-mindedness and interfering when necessary. I have every confidence you'll be able to do what the others haven't and persuade her into an examination, simply by virtue of not brooking any argument on that score, howevermuch Phil insists it is nothing. I am doubtful. I am no medic, but I have never heard of a cough lasting over five months. Or if I did, nothing good came of it.

Even if it _is_ nothing, it has been entirely too long since we were over at Ingleside. We'll make up the difference shortly. Until then be well, do good work, and keep in touch.

Jo

* * *

Ingleside,  
Glen St. Mary,  
July,1934

Jo,

As I'm sure you realise, Bruce Meredith has graduated Medical School with flying colours, as I said he would. I said this to him over the phone when he rang in a fit of nerves before the last exam. So, I gather, did Miss Caldicote, who is either a like-minded individual or has the foresight to recognise my rightness on most issues. I do not say all, as that would do a disservice to Anne, who is right at least as often as myself. More, usually.

Technically, this makes him Dr. Meredith, a fact that the exasperatingly loyal Glen has yet to recognise or accept. Loyal to me, I should say. Apparently they have had a Dr Blythe in the Glen for years, and will ever have a Dr Blythe in the Glen, world without end, amen. It would be flattering, except that we're under the inevitable wave of childhood illness, and I badly need every pair of hands I can spare. What I _can't_ do is stop in the library to re-diagnose Mrs Gabriella Alexandrina Drew just because she isn't _absolutely certain_ young Bruce Meredith got it right about her knees. He did. I told her _years_ ago to give up gardening. They are now badly arthritic and I narrowly avoided saying that was what happened of letting Darks and Penhallows marry only one another for years and years until no one knew where Penhallow began and Dark ended. As she is a Penhallow that has since become a Drew, I refrained.

Even if I did have time – a generous _if –_ increasingly I don't like to leave Susan on her own, or Di and Alastair come to that. Not to say they are forever in the house, because they _aren't_ , but I want to be there when they are. I want to help in the looking after of Hector, because a chair is _not_ the ideal thing to maneuver around the Glen in. I want to go on leisurely rambles with Dulce, and luxuriate in what's left of the time before Miss Abby starts school. I don't _not_ want to staunch burns and puzzle out what to do with yards of raw wool in payment (old Tom Duncan's acknowledgement of a rheumatism prescription), but I am too old now to do only that. It would be foolish to pretend otherwise.

It especially doesn't help that Miss Caldicote is, as far as I know, still working at Faith's hospital and giving Chinatown more time than anyone else is able or interested in doing. Faith's impression of her, for what it's worth, is that she is at least as adrift as I make Bruce. John makes it the longest they have been separated since meeting, which may be some of it. The Glen has other opinions, as you'll appreciate. Depending on who you ask, the Glen is either talking nonsense or hitting the nail on the head. Personally, I think it's nonsense. I happen to remember the value of a good partner and perpetually feel I ought to apologise to Bruce for my failure to anticipate his thoughts.

Soon you'll be here and can judge for yourself. Isn't it strange it will be you and I keeping John in news?

Love ever,

Gil

* * *

Idylwild,  
Struan,  
January, 1935

Gil,

You will gather from my letter that our Wandering Merediths arrived safely in Struan, Ontario. It is not so far, as the crow flies, from that old haunt of theirs, Crow Lake. Personally, I cannot tell much difference between the two, there being nothing but walls of snow on either side of us for miles. I told Jerry on arrival that the next time we undertake a journey to them, Nan's sending on the directions. We found Crow Lake much easier under her guidance than we did this place on his.

That is not to say it is without people altogether. Since the Crow Lake days, someone has built Faith's Dr. Christopherson a rather grand house here in the town proper; Crow Lake, you understand being the countrified cousin. Over and along a bit is the Challow Farm, and the Dunn Farm, also the farms of Janie, Vernon and Pye. (Nan is unclear if these are any relation to her mother's Pyes. Certainly they are equally unpersonable, and gave her a very indifferent reception on her arrival.) In the town proper there is McLean's, which does duty as the store in residence, and an eatery or two, but not much else. This comes largely second-hand; it has been entirely too cold to risk venturing much beyond the property line.

You will be pleased to hear that such community as there is has fairly absorbed the little girls. It is hard to say, so early on, but I safely hazard a guess that the girls even have a friend or two between them, which should please you. The Janie girls in particular, and the Challows, have been most convivial.

Winter, incidentally, is much colder than the one we left. We were expecting drifts of snow, and certainly there are those, but the lake being so close also makes it a damp cold. It's the kind that defeats layers and gets into your bones. We discovered this perhaps five minutes into a walk with the girls, who were anxious we become acquainted with their new home. Rosemary and I wondered a little over the necessity for furs and sealskin boots, but only until we'd walked halfway down the lane and were blasted by the wind. We gave up half an hour in, and returned to the house with Nan, leaving Mandy and Jerry to commune with the cardinals. He's starting some landscape involving evergreens, she anxious to see the birds fed. This in spite of Carl's many letters to her on the subject of overwintering birds.

While we waited tea on them, Rosemary and I got nicely caught up with Miri and her mother. This mostly involved hearing at length about the writing project of the moment; _Harrington_ on Nan's side, and a fanciful thing involving sentient flowers on Miri's. I've told her to send that particular creation on to Anne when it is declared finished, as I have every confidence she will appreciate it. I don't think I'm wrong, am I, thinking Anne used to write dialogues between flowers?

Eventually the damp cold defeated even the artists, and they came in with chapped lips, blue hands, and numb noses. They were, however, very glad of the tea Nan made up. Red Rose, I notice, and have decided it really is as good as the ads claim. Later, Rosemary got out a well-worn copy of _The Church Hymnal_ and she and the girls improvised a treble choir, Mandy rather keener on the project than her sister, I think. I got caught up in listening, to which end I lost rather spectacularly to Jerry at crokinole. Not that I've ever had much head for it. I tend to think you're right; it yields up nothing but sore fingers.

Write soon, and be sure to keep us in Glen news. Is Cornelia still unwell? What does Jo make of the church? He and Nathan Arnold must get on like a house on fire – do they? Is there any getting them to talk of things not the ACS and Mission Outreach?

Love and blessings to all of you,

J.M.

* * *

New Manse,  
Glen. St. Mary,  
January, 1935

John,

Christmas has been and gone, and as no one has ousted me, I begin to think we may yet get along. Forgive me, it is not that I ever thought we wouldn't, only that I was never sure how my extemporised treatises on lectionary would hold up against your more academic endeavours. There has been some grumbling, admittedly, but only what you'd expect with a change. Norman Douglas has tried to poke the usual ten holes in my doctrine, but you warned me he would, and anyway, he does that whenever I visit as a matter of course. Besides, Ellen has been very good about keeping Phil and I in baking, most of which has since been consumed by the young Blythes, or else Naomi's children. I have not let on to her that Rosemary left us with a well-stocked pantry. Do pass on thanks to her, won't you? It was much appreciated, especially with so many people dropping in unannounced in an effort to make us feel welcome.

I should warn you; I could get used to having my daughter almost on my doorstep. I don't suppose I could persuade you into my Kingsport work? You'd be very near Faith if so. No, I don't mean that really. (Phil here interjects to assure you she _does_. Take that with a generous portion of salt; her eyes are sparkling.) For one thing, I'd miss my own Kingsport wee ones. For another, I strongly suspect I couldn't do what you do year round. It hasn't been two months and already I worry I will run out of intelligent things to tell your people of a Sunday.

I _am_ enjoying the luxury of getting to know Joanie and Pip a bit better. It wasn't long ago, you'll recall, I thought I wouldn't get the chance. As it is, we see them quite a bit, between Naomi being at the paper, and Fred tied up in political wrangling. This means we see Joanie at least twice a day; she comes up when the school breaks for dinner, and again when it lets out. Pip has been known to lose whole days with us. He's discovered that old train set of Bruce Meredith's and at Bruce's injunction has set about rebuilding it at his convenience.

We've seen him a fair bit too, and he's been a very gracious host. Early on in our tenure here to show us round the house; where the spare key was, the linen cupboard, the firewood, all that sort of thing. It was remarkably helpful and spared Phil and I much searching, no two Manses being built the same and all that.

I trust you are doing well abroad. We miss you, of course, but there is no need to haste ye back. Enjoy the time with the children, and I'll see if I can't conjure a message or two for you to pass on to Una in the interim. Nathan and I are already plotting parcels. I gather she needs them as part of ACS outreach to China.

Be well, do good work, and keep in touch,

Jo

* * *

Idylwild,  
Stuan,  
March, 1935

Jo,

You will be entirely unsurprised to hear I have got drafted in to conducting this year's Easter service at the local church. Faith's Dr. Christopherson let slip something about the one I'd taken in Crow Lake, it must be years ago now, to the Rev. Gordon. Anyway, whatever it was persuaded the Rev. Gordon that I ought to be given the Easter sermon, and now I'm holed up in the library scavenging for books in an effort to do the congregation justice.

I make slow progress though, and a change being as good as a rest, thought I'd take the opportunity to inquire into affairs back home. How did the monthly session meeting go, in the end? Norman is always bombastic, of course, and Hugh McAllister opposes anything Ben Drew proposes. I suppose none of that has changed? I hope it didn't make for any undue complications at your end. Who did they finally settle on to replace Hal Taylor on the Secretariat? My Elders have a grand tradition of never agreeing, and of course you know better than anyone how immoveable a secretariat can be confronted with Tradition.

Here, I am trying to decide if Mandy genuinely does not notice that the neighbour's boy is keen on her or if she hopes that by not noticing, he'll desist. Rosemary suspects the former, Mandy's world mostly consisting of her home, her family, and her animals. When she's drawing, even the existence of those things would appear debatable. (I am reliably informed this is her inheritance from me, though I'm not at all sure that is right.)Whichever it is, I happen to be sympathetic to the Challow boy. He doesn't seem to mind if he's watching clouds with her or christening the new litter of kittens. The other day, failing altogether to be noticed, he settled for having an amicable debate with me about the Eleventh Commandment. He thinks it is Thou Shallt Not Emote. I make it Thou Shallt Add Milk Last to Tea. The fact that he was not shocked is a point in his favour, I feel. Why do you suppose people are so often afraid to see the lighter side of faith?

Miri draws no such attention, but then she doesn't seem to mind, having inherited Nan's ease of friendship and having collected a handful of girls about her. They still seem second-best to her sister, but then, after all this time, I'm glad to discover they exist. I think we had begun to worry, Gil and I, that the girls would never do anything without each other.

Love and blessings,

J.M.

* * *

Ingleside,  
Glen St Mary,  
March, 1935

John,

Here we all thought you were taking a holiday! I'll have you know that Susan has taken it very personally that you are conducting an Easter service somewhere other than Knox. I refrained from mentioning your Easter tenure at Crow Lake back in '26, thinking that would go over badly. Cornelia is indignant, Norman Douglas amused, and I remain confused as to your insistence on stumbling into work at the first opportunity.

Ellen is already asking for your notes on the sermon, as I do not think Jo's more relaxed style agrees with her. He's only now been persuaded into the pulpit, and I cannot get used to looking up at him. He made much more sense circumnavigating the chancel while extemporising, but you know what our people are. There was no convincing them on that point.

Bruce has probably told you that the Study Group goes gamely on in your absence, albeit in entirely different style. You'll be pleased to hear that Hal Taylor was heard to say the other day that he _missed_ your linguistic footnotes about translation and interpretation, the current digest being rather light in that respect. I shouldn't worry about it, though; it's theologically stretching all of us, or something. As Jo said the other day over tea, they will be finally used to him by the time you are back in the autumn. Isn't that always the way?

Phil, meanwhile, is a good deal at Ingleside, she and Anne plotting and conspiring all sorts of things. It's quite like being back at Patty's Place, the way they sit among the cushions and gossip. Or it would be if I could reconcile myself to the look of Phil. I do not like it at all, and neither does Bruce. If you want my unasked for opinion – and you're getting it because heretofore Phil has dodged it – I do not like it at all. Neither does Bruce. We are doing a fair bit of plotting with Jo to see what we can do about a medical examination. The thing of it is, John, I have that sinking feeling again that like Susan's heart, and like the awful polio, I won't be able to _do_ anything about it. It's days like this, confronted with lists like that I wonder what I ever thought I could change by going in to medicine.

You are, as ever, under strictest orders to keep us current with all things Struan. Is there still snow? Have the Pyes and the Vernons reconciled? Have you visited Harper's yet? As Davey Keith was wont to say in olden days, I want to know.

Love ever,

Gil

* * *

Idyllwild,  
Struan,  
Ester, 1935

Happy Easter!

I don't believe we've had one this memorable since Crow Lake days. Hard to believe those are getting on for ten years ago now, isn't it?

You know, of course, that I was taking the sermon. This being the case, Rosemary made a concerted effort to see to Communion. McLeans' store availed nothing, apparently, and to that end she resolved to bake the bread, an endeavour Mandy was keen enough on helping with until she discovered its ultimate purpose.

'You can't _bake_ God!' she said, incensed.

'Whyever not?' said Rosemary, confronted with fourteen years' worth of gangly limbs and Meredith stubbornness. Mandy considered this a minute before declaring (and it really was a declaration) that if _anyone_ could _bake_ God, (italics Mandy's), Auntie Una would be able to come home from Singapore, because in a world where one could _bake_ God on command, there was no need for conversion. When Rosemary couldn't immediately counter this piece of logic (and really, what could one say?) Mandy further stressed that really, wasn't it enough that God had to harrow Hell? He could hardly do that, she thought, if He was still recovering from the fiery innards of an Aga.

What tickles me about all of this though, is that the whole discourse could never have happened had Rosemary stuck to her initial intention of picking up bread for Communion from McLeans'. But she came back empty-handed to tell me that she refused, and I quote, 'to transubstantiate, consubstantiate or otherwise symbolically invoke God and the Trinity through the dubious substance of Wonder Bread.' Hence the baking. As I afterwards observed, there's no confusion whose knee Mandy learned theology at! We can't even blame Poppy and Peter's Anglicanism, or Fox Corner for this one.

Mandy's protests notwithstanding, Rosemary went ahead with the Baking of God, which gesture was taken in good faith by the rest of the community, no one else seeming to share Mandy's concern for the well-being of their Maker.

Interestingly, Mandy was positively placid about the paschal lamb. I dared to question this and she shrugged and said, ' _That_ isn't God, _that's_ because of the Passover.' After the ordeal that was Christ was Baked in the Oven the First Time, I really didn't feel up to arguing this piece of theology, so graciously conceded her point. Probably the last thing Nan needs is a vegetarian to cater to in any case.

It's a grand memory to be parting with though, the kind of thing Rosemary and I will no doubt share many a laugh over on the boat to Singapore, and of course we won't be able to explain to anyone what the joke is. The wonderful thing about your friendship these long years is that you've been that rare person who appreciates that a minister can, in fact, have a sense of levity about his work. Not all the time, maybe, but often enough to see the humour behind the perilous Baking of God, or Pastoring to Hens. A fine understanding of humanity we'd show if we didn't know what it was to laugh, occasionally. Just ask Jo, see if he doesn't agree.

I trust you will both have passed a convivial holiday. Would I be right in supposing that subsequent to the Sunrise Service both families convened for an Easter Dinner at Ingleside? Do send a report. I have every confidence you were entirely free of theologically curious imps – Iain, after all, being entirely sympathetic to the cause of eating God. If not though, don't hesitate to impart the details. Mandy might like to know she and God have someone in their corner.

Love and blessings,

J.M.

P.S. It might be of interest to Shirley that weather being what it is, we're going by sea-plane from Crow Lake to Montreal, where there will be a boat waiting. Otherwise, Jerry assures us, we would still be here come May, and still waiting on spring. Given the Easter we have had, I can believe it. I have never been colder in my life!

* * *

Ingleside, April, 1935

John,

You really must warn us next time you write a letter that cannot be read aloud to Susan! It's only fair. You should have _heard_ the righteous rhetoric we were treated to about confusing children with notions of God that weren't even theirs. To approximate the gist of it, she has no idea what transubstantiation nor that other thing mentioned _are,_ except that they're not _ours._ And because I had never heard of consubstantiation either, Iain somehow got the job of explaining it, Peter and Poppy being too overcome with laughter to do the subject much justice. Susan said she couldn't see how it wasn't the same as declaring the Communion bread to _be_ God, and none of the assembled Presbyterians could, either. Mara was heard to observe that it was really the Episcopal way of having your cake and eating it, which made Jo laugh heartily, even as it set off Peter and Poppy again, but only confused poor Susan further. Personally, I think she has hit the nail on the head. Mara, that is. Ask Rosemary for me if the Episcopalians have any doctrines that are definitely one thing or another, won't you?

Anyway, Susan has now developed a conviction that all that travelling has addled any understanding Mandy ever had of God, and is plotting ways to right this wrong. Ideas range wildly from the sending of her girlhood bible in the next birthday parcel, thus ensuring exposure to Scripture, to the persuading of Jo into writing out a treatise on the tenants of Presbyterianism to be read and taught to all the grandchildren. She's quite given up on _you_ doing it in light of the Baking of God incident. Honestly, John, none of us could speak for the longest time afterwards, reading that.

 _Our_ Easter was much less dramatic. There was the usual Sunrise Service, and we had a golden morning for it, the sea a deep lapis blue, and satin-smooth; Ned Burr's musicians were in fine fettle, as was Anthony, who joined in with them on the banjo. Ken and Rilla were equal parts proud of the achievement and distressed by the instrument. This in spite of Bruce's assurances that as temperamental instruments go, the twelve-string banjo is unequaled, and any mastery of it is commendable.

It was the kind of cool, clear morning that made you think on waking that it was only yourself and the world bearing witness to the glory of creation. If there _was_ any murmuring from wee Iain about the oddness of a set table up in the chancel, and the paucity of people seated there, Susan was much too busy doting on his sister to notice – and no one enlightened her. Jo gave a rather good sermon on living the resurrection, which was fascinating, but as Cornelia observed to Anne afterwards, nothing to do with the readings. Jo's sermons never _do_ have anything to do with the readings. I'd expect nothing less from a mission-first minister. Norman Douglas is delighted by them, and has tremendous fun trying to unravel their soundness. He hasn't succeeded yet, though he gave it a good go after the morning service.

Afterwards we did, indeed, retire to Ingleside for an Easter feast, augmented, naturally, by Bruce, and those of Jo's children that had been able to travel down for the occasion. In what I think must be an Ingleside first, we had to give up on the table. I know we've done that other years, and other holidays, but generally when away from home, as it were. Hector and Abby thought it a grand lark, as did Dulce, who did an admirable job of coaxing first, second and third luncheon from the assembled masses.

Safe travels on the eve of your departure; we are all anxious here to learn how you get on in Singapore. Be sure to write us at your first convenience.

Love ever,

Gil

P.S. Also next time you write on the theme of 'planes, for goodness' sake include specifics! The interested party now want to know what kind of an aeroplane, at what milage, flying in from where and one hundred other things I have no answer to.

* * *

 _With thanks as ever to all of you reading and/or reviewing, and a tip of the hat to Anne o' the Island, who inspired Mandy's sentiments on the Baking of God. I hope they proved fun to read as they were to write. And to Wow also, whose review I can't reply to properly. There's nothing like an unlooked for review to brighten my day - and that one definitely wasn't inadequate._

 _Crow Lake and Struan, it needs saying are the property of Mary Lawson, a great Canadian writer in her own right. Similarly, Dr Christopherson is inspired by her doctor of the same name. To my mind, you are currently reading about his father. If you have time, do give her a read. It's fantastic Canadiana._

 _Finally, in a detail that might need clarification, Gil refers to a set communion table. This is because there is a very old presbyterian tradition where you actually set a table up in the chancel and take communion like a meal - if you're one of the Elect, clearly. It went out of fashion a while ago, but the Glen is just oldy-worldy enough that I imagine they might have kept the practice going into the '30s._

 _Next stop, Singapore!_


	29. Chapter 29

Trinity House,  
Evelyn Road, Singapore,  
May, 1935

Jo,

We have arrived. We met the children at Keppel Harbour, what Li tells me was once Dragon Teeth Gate before the rocks impeding its access were blown up. I gather that one of these, tall and narrow, went by the name of Lot's Wife, so much did it hinder navigation. It is all gone now, and though there is some notion of renaming the place New Harbour, it has not quite stuck. As Carl said, laughing, it would only be new in the way New College, Oxford is new, which is to say, not at all.

Trinity House on Evelyn Road is much grander than I expected, being two storeys with a veranda that wraps around the house. (This last is not uncommon; from what I can gather they function as our parlours do.) As I understand it, this state of affairs owes entirely to Carl's tenure at Raffles College and not the ACS. Still, it is near enough Barker Road to make easy walking, though quite far from elsewhere. I do not think they mind; Li least of all. After all the to-do over the marriage, I am not surprised in their choosing to keep their own company.

Even so, we have done well in seeing the city. The weather continuing fine, we walked in leisurely fashion to the city market. It is difficult to do justice to so much bustle and novelty. Guava and banana sellers knocked elbows with stalls of curried noodles, and paper merchants of the kind to host that tell-tale water-thin paper we have come to look for with our post. There were chickens in cages and monkeys running wild; also a herd of piglets that overturned a cart full of silks. A ring-necked dove risked the crush of people to steal a slice of papaya, occasioning much shouting from the vendor. Anne would have revelled in the combination of spices, flowers and smells all mixed up together; cinnamon with coriander, nutmeg with oregano, orchids in profusion tangled with queenly lilies and our beloved irises.

We went through Change Alley with its paper merchants to Raffles College, which Carl showed us round – Li with Iris in her chair hanging back rather – stopping once to talk with Professor Dyer, of whom Carl has often written. Thereafter we continued along Stampford Street to the much-lauded MPH bookshop. We admired, but did not go into, the Raffles Place shops, and nodded to the Capitol with that famous dome before walking back to Evelyn Rd. (Pausing, of course, for tea; the day had grown quite long by then, and Li and Una are partial to a place on Middle Alley.)

Much of this, you will gather, is not really representative of life. Or if it is, not of _their_ lives. Though if it comes to that, is the showing of one's home to travellers _ever_ that? We have since done better, going this morning down to the Quays. We saw the long narrow boats like elegant, hollowed peapods, and the commotion of people hauling cargo out of them and up the way. They shouted and sang to one another as they went, taking everything from lumber to lobsters. I still _cannot_ , for the life of me, Jo, fit my slip of a girl into that bustling, clamorous rush of the docks, arms burdened with the parcels we send, lugging them up off the piers. I still see the little girl that fainted from fasting in my mind's eye, I think.

Of course, I know the brunt of her work is with the ACS, teaching and marking scripts, overseeing the curriculum. But her letters are quite full enough of births she has been called to attend and assist at through the Foreign Mission or the sick she has visited, the alms and the Food Ministry, and the Sewing Circle with its projects of clothes, and quilts for the children, that I know better than to suppose the ACS is all of it.

In one particular, however, I am now well versed. All the time we were out, we kept passing by knots of people who hurtled any amount of abuse at Li. Possibly Iris too, but I cannot vouch for that. That is not to say I understood it, more I inferred it from the tone and the way she carried herself; also the fact that without exception, it made Una flinch. It was only much later, over Nilgiri tea in Una's beloved Gladstone Blue Ribbon that she explained what an unforgivable sin Li's mixing publicly with her and Carl was to the Chinese. I ought to have guessed, or at least remembered. I know among other things, Carl came under death-threats for the audacity of the thing – and not in the usual, hot-headed way Glen fathers profess when confronted with scandal, either. I suppose I had thought it would die down after the fact.

Instead, I find that my daughter and daughter-by-adoption have spent years carefully staggering errands to avoid this sort of attention, never going out together when it can be helped – or except as a very rare treat – and then _never_ to Chinatown. It might come about, if for instance, the Chinese Opera has something of interest on, or the ACS requires it. (I don't believe it often does; the ACS continues very much Una's work, and Jo's by extension, though Li and Carl have been known to help bring in the Mission parcels from the docks.)

As Una told it over Nilgiri and Gladstone Blue Ribbon,we being all the family Li now has, she makes an exception for us. I find I cannot but be humbled by it.

It reminded me of a social variant on the kind of elaborate dance I used to navigate of an evening with Cecilia – the kind Fox Corner and company no doubt can still navigate, with reels on the side and figures of eight, all hands round and that sort of thing. I couldn't do it at all, now, but the triad at Trinity House have no such trouble.

We have also met the menagerie; Puck with his taste for sweet tea and peanuts, Nenni, magnificent, leopard-spotted, snake-catching cat, Akela,who is a dog of such mixed pedigree as to outdo even Monday, and, of course, the infamous Buffalo, _Papatee_. Una will not admit to it, but she's really quite fond of it, unsurprising, as it is a very gentle animal. Iris too, loves it, especially climbing up to sit on its back and pet the velvety nose – both trials it submits to graciously.

I cannot go without telling you about Iris, though I hardly know where to start. If I never imagined I would take Empire Day for the ACS – and I have agreed that I will – still less did I imagine I would get to meet this granddaughter. Indeed, when we first arrived she spent a deal of time hiding behind her mother's skirts, also those of her aunt. Consequently, all we saw of her for many hours was those wide, black eyes tracking us with nervous curiosity. But over time, as she saw how her adults go on with us, she relaxed, and has since condescended to climb up onto Rosemary's knee for a hug, and mine for the occasional story. A decision I strongly suspect to have been influenced by the appearance of salted guava and an elaborate pavlova on the veranda's dragon-leg table.

In looks she is like Li; moon-pale and dark-haired, though in temperament she puts me in mind of Carl. I do not mean only her love of animals, though certainly there is that, but the playfulness bubbling under so much exterior calm. Li calls her _firecracker,_ and she is not wrong; she is like a living Roman Candle; slow burning but brimful of zest and energy, with a gift for plunging herself into scrapes.

The latest of these was a tumble off of _Encyclopaedia Britanica vol. X_ by way of the kitchen chairs. This was in the interest of getting a tub of Radio Malt down from the kitchen cupboards. (Radio Malt being, as I gather, this country's solution to Cod Liver Oil, or one of them. I do not know what it tastes of, but it certainly _smells_ of toffee.)* Iris has quite the taste for it, seemingly, and would eat the whole tub in one sitting if it were not kept so high.

There is more, there is always more, but if I try and write it, I will neither do it justice, nor see my children the remainder of the visit. A poor holiday that would be.

Keep me abreast of news back home; I look forward to hearing it.

Love and blessings,

J.M.

* * *

Trinity House,  
Evelyn Road, Singapore,  
May, 1935

Gil,

The other evening I finally attempted to unravel a years-old quandary about that snake Nenni caught. Do you remember? I thought it was poisonous, and you thought it wasn't, and Jo couldn't work out which of us had the right of it. Consequently, as we were taking tea on the veranda the other evening, I asked Una about it. She looked at me with those wide, almond eyes of hers and said perplexedly, ' _Which_ snake, father?'

I told her what I could, adding helpfully, as I thought, that it would have been in and around '28. Una's eyes narrowed in consideration, and she said, 'But there have been so _many_ snakes over the years.'

'And mice,' said Li from where she sat at Una's elbow. 'Mice, lizards, crickets, myna birds...' She had been ticking them off on her fingers as she went, and it was obvious from intonation and the curtailing of this list both that she took much exception to the casual murder of mynas, even by the resident feline, be she ever so spotted and queenly.

'Well,' said I, 'I think this snake was poisonous.'

'There have been lots of those too,' said Carl, appearing out of the gloaming and reaching over Una's shoulder to himself to a Gladstone teacup full of jasmine. I find it is a taste I am rapidly acquiring; delicate, and floral, and prone to oversteep if left to sit too long. The leaves are like caterpillars; I marvel at them every time I catch Una preparing a pot., how long and coiled they are.

'Anyway,' Carl said, 'the important thing is really whether the snake is _venomous_ or not.' And here this lowly minister thought those two things synonymous! I must have said so, because I earned a joint lecture from Carl and Li on the difference, with occasional contribution from Una, who has obviously learned much about natural science by osmosis these many years. To cap it all, Nenni re-emegerd from the shadows with a leap onto the newel post, whence she minced delicately along the veranda rail, before climbing gingerly on to Una's knees, snake dangling from her mouth. Una clucked disapproval, but the others rushed to examine it. Li declared it harmless - which is to say, not venomous - and Carl whisked it away to scrutinise under a microscope, quite abandoning his teacup and unperturbed by the absence of half the snake's head.

I suppose Dulce keeps you similarly in such niceties? Or perhaps the cat Jo intimates he and Phil have befriended back at the New Manse. I _believe_ that is the usual stray Rosemary tends with a saucer of milk every evening, but could not exactly say. If I remember right, Naomi lately intimated that there is a herd (?) of feral kittens being raised under the Taylor porch, and it may be one of these. Find out for me, won't you?

Awaiting your news as ever, with love and blessings,

J.M.

* * *

Trinity House,  
Evelyn Road, Singapore,  
June, 1935

Gil,

If you had told me years ago that I should see in the king's Silver Jubilee in the colony of Singapore, while hosting Empire Day for the ACS, I should not have believed you. I do not believe it now.

It is like nothing on earth that I have known before. That is, Empire Day is not so different from our Victoria Day, save for the cork hats they make the children wear for the heat. Truth be told, I fancy we needed them more than the children; they were obviously wilting under them for the weather, and Una theorises that from the way they take to Drill, they are more tolerant of the sun from having grown up under it than we are. Much the way you and I never notice the cold unless it turns damp, I suppose. (I do not think she is wrong, as I notice Iris has escaped the fate of the cork hat and is none the worse for it.)

I fear that is the extent of my observations on this theme, my attention being pretty well divided between Iris and reading out the speech I had been handed. For a more accurate picture I direct you towards my daughter, who is well versed in such festivities. All I took in was the usual speech-giving, the heat and the way the ACS children ran for the field at first opportunity afterwards. They are, from what I can tell, very keen on sports.

I may do rather better for the rest.

Speaking of Iris; her latest scrape was the nearly-successful theft of a slice of Victoria Sponge from a celebratory preparation of Una's without anyone noticing. This was achieved by carefully sliced a piece from the bottom, so that no one would notice it had shortened. Una did, of course, being very well-versed in what her cakes should look like, and all the women scolded. Carl and I agreed between us that the trick was really too clever to reprimand, and as we all ended by laughing, no harm was done. Iris even got a proper slice of cake out of the occasion – this one with some of the jam and cream in it – though it took some wheedling from Rosemary to orchestrate.

I do not deny it shall be good to be back among our own people, but equally, I find I am loath to leave. It has been an unlooked for luxury to sit with my little girl again, to watch her wrangle with Rosemary for the tea things and fuss over such civilities as place settings and antimacassars. Never mind that I worried little Carl should never find his feet after the war. For all he made light of his eye – Cecilia's eyes, I still catch myself calling them, even in him – I still worried it might cost him his own calling. But here he is, adored by his students, a veritable zoo of animals around him, skilled in his work, every bit as confident in his calling as Una in hers. Add to which he radiates happiness; they all do. I have no complaint or lamentation to make of my God. I can only praise him with timbrel and drum, cymbal and lyre as I have not done in years.

Here too, I have sat under the noonday sun (this to Li's horror) with my granddaughter on my knee and tried to memorize the sun-warm smell of her, the mix of coconut oil and orchid-scented rinse of her hair, the way she quirks her mouth up at one corner when smiling. (It is not a proper smile; rather it is the one I have long associated with Una – the blossoming of some emotional water lily on a still pond.) I will never master it, of course. If there but forever and forever…There will be, I suppose, in some far-off, New Heaven. In the meantime, such fine details will soften like waxwork, and I am heartsore for it.

For the time being, I shall carry them close, and anticipate the visit that brings them all to our doorstep in turn.

Love to you and Ingleside. Give the manse a wave as you pass next time and reassure Jo we will be home soon, and he can return to his Mission efforts. I know well enough he must miss them. Soon we shall sit on the veranda and talk of our travels over Susan's impeccable baking and a cup of tea. Victoria Rose, this time, or perhaps your Cuthbert Rosebud. Blue Gladstone Ribbon will be worlds away, as will my children, and then it will suffice to be among friends.

Until then, all our love and blessings,

J.M

* * *

Ingleside,  
Glen St. Mary,  
June, 1935

John,

Forgive me interrupting your holiday. But I wanted to catch you up on the latest ordeal here, as you won't have heard.

As you so aptly observed when over in Struan, the little girls are finally in a position to befriend persons not each other – and not short of time, in my book. The latest of these is a Miss Janie of Miri's acquaintance, who is a year older than Miri, and wild for Nan's books. As of the present moment, she has also persuaded Miri into some scheme to travel Europe together. State of the world notwithstanding, they have agreed to this, and whether it's because there is no paper delivering to Struan – which I do not believe – or because neither can be sure when the opportunity will next present itself, I do not know.

What I _do_ know is that I do not like it at all. Not a bit. All I could think on the hearing of this news was how terribly _young_ Miri was. The fact that the trip is set for spring next year did not reassure me. Anything might happen between now and then. More terrifying laws from Germany. Further armament. I don't know. That's the _point_. And she'll _still_ be terrifyingly young.

But the little girls have so few independent friends between them that Nan was reluctant to dissuade her. Jem and Jerry argued the point volubly later. I went to fetch _William the Detective_ from my study, intending to read the latest instalment to the children, only to find the door closed while they argued vociferously from the other side. I didn't much like that either; when I think of Jem, I still tend to think of him with Jerry at his elbow leading the charge into the battle of the hour. It made me uneasy to hear them at odds like that, Jem going on and on about the news from abroad, Jerry insisting Miri and company would be safe as houses. Of course I turned away, minus Crompton, and rejoined the others.

I must have looked rather grey, because Nan, bypassing me to sit at her mother's feet gave me a kiss on the head, and Miss Abby and Dulce both took it upon themselves to build a nest on my knees, Abby hunkering down ultimately, thumb in mouth, and drowsily demanding a story. Her feet against my forearm were freezing, after half a day spent out in the sea, and she smelled of sun and salt. She had got one of the old, woollen blankets of mother's wrapped around us, and the bristles were devilishly ticklish, though she didn't seem to notice. I ignored the fact that she'd grown three inches this month alone and is getting atypically tall for her age, so much so that to sit on me is now a very awkward ordeal indeed. I snugged it around her feet, gave Dulce a pat and proceeded to tell the story of my first meeting with Anne. Halfway through, Anne interjected to say I was telling it wrong, and Miss Abby – wee imp that she is – had the nerve to agree with her.

Much laughter followed, and Teddy looked up from chess with Kitty to demand the details of the other half-dozen romances around them. Faith joined in gamely, and the others followed. I was too busy being surprised at the variety between them to hold on with efficacy to the sick feeling Miri's news had conjured.

It's back now, though. Stupidly, I picked up the proofs Naomi left over here for tomorrow's paper, and now all I can think of is that dainty, blue slip of a baby I brought to Faith for a second opinion – how small she was, how big the world. We didn't fight for her so fiercely only for the world to snatch her away in chaos and confusion. She could be hurt, or maimed, or killed…but then I suppose I might have said that of any of the children once. Oh for the days when Shirley taking up permanent residence in Scotland was the greatest of our worries.

I don't imagine anyone will talk her out of it. Miri has got Nan's stubbornness along with her nut-brown looks, and I don't suppose that will change now. Say a prayer, will you, that we get her back safe? It's not just England she's after seeing, but Europe, and the idea gives me gooseflesh.

As if that weren't enough to be getting on with, Phil's cough is back. She has grown alarmingly thin with it, and has perfected the art of stretching out one cup of tea to fill a whole visit. It must be terribly cold by the time she finishes with it, but I'm not convinced Phil notices. Or if she does, she hasn't said anything about it. Jo has, I know. He does not like the colour she has gone any more than I do; I am reminded entirely too much of those pictures we got of the half-starved farming families the year the west was under such drought. This is just in time align with the polio rearing its head again, my own personal hydra. The one bright spot is that Alice Caldicote has put in an application for the now-vacant position of district nurse, and not before time. I may yet get away with only answering Bruce's sentences, rather than finishing them. Anyway, there is a place ready at the Young Arnold House just as soon as the medical board accepts her. The medical board is deeply biased, half of it having missed having its mind read and the other half equally anxious to be spared the effort of mind reading. Of course, it is also eager to requisition the best nurse it can. To hear Faith, Bruce and Jo on the subject, no one is likely to eclipse Nurse Caldicote on that front. If she can get here before Jo and Phil leave, so much the better. She might prove the push we need to corral Phil into my study and under a stethoscope. I swear that cough of hers has only got worse.

But enough of this. Write me another of your travelogues, won't you? Tell me the (mis)adventures of Iris, and exactly what a Chinese opera is like. Nothing like Puccini's idea of one, I shouldn't wonder.

Love ever ,

Gil

* * *

Ingleside,  
Glen St. Mary,  
July, 1935

John,

A much-needed bit of good news today; Miri and Mandy are to be sisters. Again, I suppose I should add. The announcement was made very quietly over the soup course last night, and though they left declarations to their parents, it is obvious they are excited at the prospect. Mandy has, for years, been hinting to Helen in her letters, how much she should like a _little_ sister. The fine details, obviously, are out of her hands, but it isn't impossible she should get her wish.

We were all together at the time, or near enough, Shirley and Mara having taken the children back to Scotland. But the rest of the Kingsport contingent was there, Teddy and Kitty inclusive. To say she's in Toronto now, I still count her as theirs. Anyway, without thinking, I said I hoped that on this occasion I was spared a repeat of Miri's birth and the _look_ Faith gave me for it!

' _You_ ,' she said, rightly indignant, ' _you_ weren't the one mending her _heart_! That was all _my_ job!'

Rilla looked shocked, and Ken too, but the rest of us only laughed. Helen demanded the story, and Susan said it wasn't talk for the supper table. That only made us laugh harder and Helen more determined. Even Christopher joined in, which was either contrariness or a point in favour of Faith's suppositions as to his latent medical inclinations. Jem was halfway into the story before Teddy turned green and Miri successfully diverted our attention elsewhere.

She did this, lest you were curious, by elaborating on the details of this expedition she and Miss Janie are organising. Mandy tried to head her off with a look, and then by talking overtop of her, but to no good effect. That stirred up exactly the kind of trouble I have come to expect, not least a fistful of questions as to how those two Misses were keeping in touch so lately. Letter, is the answer to that one.

Anyway, we argued the point and politics for a bit, before Anne got the conversational reins and _re_ diverted us back towards the baby. When was it due, did Nan still have clothes left over from the little girls, were those still useable, and all sorts of other things. Susan was full of a scheme for a quilt, and _almost_ sounded disappointed about the fact Cornelia couldn't contribute. Don't tell her I said so.

In other but not lesser news, Miss Alice Caldicote has arrived safely. Her existence has halved my duties, since apparently, there is no tradition or continuity in the names of Glen nurses. Here's to her synchronicity with Bruce persuading our part of the universe that he too can be trusted with medical emergencies. Anyway, she's installed in Naomi's spare room as was and very happy about it, as are we all.

Love to you and yours. Especially tell Rosemary that Anne found her account of _bansawang_ most diverting. Looking forward to seeing you soon,

Love ever,

Gil

* * *

New Manse,  
Glen St. Mary,  
December, 1935

Jo,

As you'll understand, it is _good_ to be back. To be among one's own things in one's own chair after months away – does anything do that sensation justice? Not that Rosemary and I haven't enjoyed the leave. We saw things we should never have seen; for a little while we _knew_ our Iris. Will always know her, even if I never can persuade her family back over the water. But I have held her in my arms and spoiled her (Li's word) with guava and Radio Malt, assisted her in all sorts of scrapes. (These have included the affixation of reins to _Papatee_ and leading her on rides around the garden, the swiping of extra cake from under its dome, and one or two adventures in botany that required Rosemary's intervention to ensure what illegal bouquets were made up for mother and aunt did not wipe whole sections of garden out of existence.) I have attempted – and failed – to stroke the sacred, spotted ears of Nenni, and dodged rickshaws, and felt cold I never even imagined. Also debated the finer doctrinal points of assorted dubious supplementary commandments with my grandchildren's contemporaries, and learned what sound snow makes when it is packed so tight one must coat an auto in chains to survive the roads. Not forgetting the sea plane, obviously. (I still do not know the model, not having thought to ask. Do apologise to Shirley for me.) But even now it is beginning to blur together. I am drinking tea from the Victoria Rose, and it smells of Singapore, the guavas and fireflies to me, and if I close my eyes I can still see – just – the light falling across the veranda and the chink of Una's Blue Gladstone Ribbon on the dragon-leg table. But it feels very remote, and Struan, for all it is less exotic, feels still more so. Is there really such a person in the world as Mrs Stanovitch? It seems incredible to think there is. Can Miri be so close with Miss Janie as to travel with her? We never saw enough of the friendship to know.

Now I am sitting at my desk, surrounded by books, waxing lyrical on what was instead of penning the thank you I intended. I have come home to find all here as happy and well as can be expected. They are full of stories of the adventures I missed and you tended to; the marriages, deaths, baptisms. Thank you for shepherding them for me Jo, and doing it thoroughly, as I knew you would.

There is certainly more, but I find I do not know how to say it. Only that you must ask if there is ever an occasion when I can recompense you half the trouble. Now I fear I must relocate myself and the teacup to the company of Bruce, Alice and assorted visitors. You'll forgive me if I vanish. Know I'm thinking of you, and hoping Phil is doing better after Gil's prescription. No doubt she too is finding that a return to her own home is exactly what was called for.

Love and blessings,

J.M.

* * *

* _By all accounts Radio Malt does indeed taste of toffee. But I wouldn't know, having no practical experience of it. This from Life Among the Fireflies and Guavas, which source John's letters owe a sizeable debt. _


	30. Chapter 30

_Thanks always to those reading and/or reviewing, especially my guests, who I can't interact with directly. I love hearing from all of you._

* * *

Martyrs' Manse,  
Kingsport,  
January, 1936

We got one last Christmas. It was a grand Christmas, a Bolingbrook affair that would have done old Hetta Gordon proud. How Ruthie ever managed it, I don't know. Though headlines tell me wheat has made a profit for the first time in ages, so perhaps that is some of it. Not, obviously, that we have anything to do with wheat. Not that it matters.

It was, as I say, a grand Christmas. A tree in the old style with tinsel and pinecones and baubles. The children made popcorn strings, Evie eating most of hers, and Jake's boys lighting the tree on fire in the name of tradition. I think Phil must have put the idea in their heads and I don't care at all; she did love mischief. Creating it, being at the centre of it, watching it unfold and gloating like a cat over cream.

I cannot quite believe I will never see that side of her again. I cannot believe I will never see _her_ again. I know you thought it was a bad case, Gil – know when you finally got that exam you made it very little time left – but I thought….I thought I would _know_ , Gil. I knew when we met that I wanted to marry her; I knew when I held our children that I _did_ love them, always would, always had. I knew I would go to the ends of the earth for her, for any of them – tried to, after Andrew was killed and Phil such a shadow of herself. I knew I was right to be worried; I was glad when she wasn't. Because if Phil wasn't worried then it wasn't real, could be laughed away…I knew so many things, Gil. I thought I would know this one, too. Instead of which, I woke up at some ungodly hour and found she wasn't there. Not _absent_ , but too still, and not coughing nearly enough.

Now it is only myself, rattling around the house, still with its watermarks and mold we never quite kept at bay. We did fix the boiler though; your boys, and mine, and Bruce were instrumental in that. I suppose I should be glad that at the end, with bones like a bird's in fragility, she wasn't _cold_. Only she _was_ , Gil, and that's the worst of it. I knew because finally she was cold all over and still that I was never getting her back.

Do you remember me before Phil? I do not. I think I must have done something – seminary and mission efforts, but I can't think what the something was. All the stories I have ever told the children, have told their children, have painted her at my side, my right hand, my best self, my reason for daring to choose earth over Heaven, however briefly. It's terrible theology, I know that. Not the way to the Resurrected Christ. But if nothing we do here matters, then how can anything else? Phil made it matter. Shaped it, gave it purpose…and now there is me, and the house, our collective imperfections, and a lifetime told in objects I haven't the heart to bundle away yet. The chipped tile over the stove, where our first kettle boiled dry and caught fire because Sam was teething, I was out and Phil couldn't be in two places at once. The wooden bowl of her grandmother's, whose two halves I reunited after Ruthie was born, and both of them so ill. There's a silver cross – empty – that she was never without, that I will never see again because of course I can't take it from her now. The first really valuable thing I was able to gift her, that. And that's the start. There are memories at every turn – I am drowning in them. How you ever weathered your crosses and losses with such grace I cannot understand. I thought I did, but that was before I woke up in a black pre-dawn and found myself alone, all raw edges and fragments.

I haven't half done her justice here: forgive me. There are people I must tell. Parishioners as were, friends. The children must be told, and Faith will want to know, and Bruce and Alice. They did so much, and still it fell short. No failing of theirs, that. Nor yours, Gil. You did more for her at the end than any of us.

Tell John, because I don't think I can run to another letter before the next post, and then apologise on my behalf for not writing myself. The air is thick with ghosts of what was, and I have yet to learn what it is to be without them.

Jo

* * *

New Manse,  
Glen St Mary,  
January, 1936

Jo,

Naomi told us; we knew even before your letter had got to Ingleside. She appeared on our doorstep late the other day, a grey-white ghost in the night, gloved but hatless.

'Mum's died,' she said, and spent the next two minutes fussing over the buttons on those gloves until Rosemary intervened and did it for her. Rosemary went to make tea; your daughter allowed me to get an arm around her and manoeuvre her into one of the good chairs, the paisley with its origin at the Old West House. There, in a piece of Presbyterian theology that Cornelia would have lauded had she heard it, Naomi said, 'Not dead. With Christ, I suppose I should say. That's the Resurrection, isn't it? _In the Resurrection…they are as angels in Heaven?_ '

It's been a long time since we had a good debate over theology, Naomi and I, and we've both missed it in our way. But neither of us wanted this. Another day we'd have debated the point academically, but not with your call lingering in her eyes, the ramifications washing over us. Rosemary appeared with a tea tray, and played mother as the women say, without a murmur.

'Cambric tea,' said Naomi, sipping at the Victoria Rose in her hands, and looking every bit as fragile as its enscrolled handle. 'I haven't had that in years.'

'Good for children,' said Rosemary, 'and for shock. The sweetness, I think.'

There was nothing meaningful to say, there never is. I could still remember what it was to sit ensconced in memory, half-suffocated, thinking I should never come up for air. We both could, I think, myself and Rosemary. So in the end I reached for the mantlepiece bible, turned past the day's lectionary, and came up with Revelations, because I remembered the poetry of it. Rosemary says it has the rhythm of a thurible. I don't know. I only know that I remember cleaving to it after losing Cecilia, _I am he that liveth, and was dead; and, behold, I am alive for evermore, Amen; and have the keys of hell and of death._ We sat, and Rosemary poured out as I read, and all the while, Naomi burrowed cat-like into the paisley armchair, once of the Old West House, the Victorian Rose in her hands, and listened, now and then remembering her tea and drinking it, the cup chinking against the saucer between times.

I don't know how long that went on, how much time past before I saw her off with a prayer and a kiss. But I've called round since, and sat some more, read other verses. Gil has been, and Anne. Alice Caldicote is keeping her and the family in strong, sweet tea. Good for shock and children, after all. Susan has gone bearing food, as have Cornelia, Rosemary and Ellen, Di too. Joanie is the solemnest I've known her yet, and Fred doing his best to minister to all of them. Occasionally Miss Abby joins him in the effort, leaving the house more than she has in years to sit at Joanie's feet, or wrap her arms around Pip.

As soon as you have things settled, you need only to say and we'll be up for the service. And if there is anything we can do – however small, or nonsensical it sounds out loud, consider it done. You have only to ask; you must know this. Until then,

Be well, do good work and keep in touch as best you can. We'll be thinking of you.

Love and blessings,

J.M.

* * *

Martyrs' Manse, J  
Kingsport,  
anuary, 1936

John,

I cannot think without Phil. I'm not sure I've ever had to before. The Bundle Kirk, unable to shake old habits, has flooded the house in well-wishes and contributions of food they can ill afford to make. I have no appetite, less than Phil ever had at the end, but neither can I do them the injustice of wasting such bounty. I am distributing the brunt of it among Sam and family, your own children's households, and Fox Corner too. Ellie has had to ask me to stop with parcels; the girls have no appetite either, and the parishioners are as generous to her and to Sam as they are to me. The new refrigerator is under extreme duress, apparently, trying to keep up with such charity.

The grandchildren are disconsolate. They can no more remember a world without Phil than I can, and their parents are the same. I spoke Jake the other evening, and the boys are the tamest they have ever been, the days of homemade firecrackers and larks long forgot. They won't wail or gnash teeth, he says, only practice an awful kind of stoicism, which is worse and reminds him of the war. Little Nell, and I understand, Naomi's children, make up this difference. Though from what I can gather, Di's children are making considerable inroads with them. To which end, I owe Miss Abby a letter of thanks – she sent me a very solemn one herself expressing sympathy, all done up with a black border that you could see she had pencilled in herself. A postscript assures me she didn't like to deprive her grandmother of her own stock. It was the strangest thing, John; I read it over with its childish scrawl, and thought of all those promises we had made our children's children. How little death we intended them to witness. Yet it keeps on mounting. Polio, and Aurelia, and now Phil. They must know more of death at their age than I did at twenty, strange to say.

Ellie has offered to come round and sort through the house for me, but I have put her off. It is hard enough without _Phil_ ; already the smell of her, starch, lye, and lavender-water, is fading from her workroom. To have no trace of her at all would be impossible.

But what I was writing to say – where I meant to start, was with a thank-you. Phil used to say Naomi was far more my child than hers – that from the first we spoke a language she couldn't translate. She meant the theology, which of course was nonsense, because anyone with more heart and charity than Phil I cannot think of. But be that as it may, I wasn't there. Couldn't be there. Should have been. I got as far as 'I'm so sorry' in the telling of it over the phone before I went to pieces and left Naomi to the reassembly. I didn't mean to, but that was how it happened. But you were there, and Rosemary too. I'm glad of that. That there was someone to catch and hold my child when I could not, to steady the world and reorient her as much as possible. Reassemble the pieces of _her_ so that for five minutes or an evening, she too did not have to think. To talk of things I have never had the grace or knowledge to articulate with any plainness – the Resurrection and Election and the New Heaven. Thank you for Revelations. I have been walking my way through it ever since.

I enclose the particulars of the service, as requested, and will see you shortly. I have every confidence you will, in the interim, be well, do good work, and keep in touch. Only, you may have to do some of my portion too; I fear I will be little use to anyone for the foreseeable future.

Jo

* * *

Ingleside,  
Glen St Mary,  
January, 1936

Jo,

No one expects utility from the grieving. I have a theory that that is exactly what inspired the great Casserole Intervention Movement of women the world over. I don't pretend to know much about it, but I suspect it's that same impulse that drove the Martyrs' Mothers' Union to give quilts to the dispossessed, and food to the hungry, that sent you to your fisheries in the first place. To hold the hands of the dying, and to clothe the naked and all that. You see? Some of my Golden Verses really did stick.

Less facetiously, _your_ lessons on love and community stuck. You have walked with us too often through the valley of the shadow; the least we can do to balance those scales is reciprocate the favour. I can't quote verses at you, and I don't altogether understand the doctrines in play, the things that might matter, but I remember what it is to be caught by others as you spin wildly through the changing scenes of life. I can do that; can put out my hands and do my bit to catch and reground you. The world has lost some of its sparkle and light in Phil; how could it not? Her brightness, her colour and laughter was infectious. And if she learned practicality with time, she ever knew how to laugh at herself. It was one of the greatest lessons in humility I think I have ever witnessed, her willingness to denigrate one of her failed culinary creations, to acknowledge the faults of a proof when she had erred. I'd never seen anything like that before; I shall remember it always.

Look for us soon, Jo. I am leaving the practice in Dr. Parson's hands, Dick having since retired and Bruce being of a mind to join our party. We'll stay as long as you want. Weeks, days, not at all – you have only to ask.

Love ever,

Gil

* * *

 _Queue here for virtual tea as necessary. In the land of potentially circumstance-mitigating trivia, the quilt pattern that features for the story cover is a Crosses and Losses pattern. It seemed an apt design when I began, and given it got a sideways reference in the correspondence, this seemed the obvious place to mention it._


	31. Chapter 31

Idylwild,  
Struan,  
March, 1936

John,

It is very late here. The sky is in that black, pre-dawn hour, the Aurora having gone to bed an hour or so back. It put in a brief and temperamental appearance, coming sporadically through the clouds. Another night Anne would have been in raptures over it. Tonight, neither of us noticed much, our attention being occupied by the scene unfolding in the upstairs bedroom of Idylwild.

It was a long night, and we are advanced two lasses for our trouble. They arrived practically holding hands, small in the way of twins, but happily, none of them blue. I really couldn't have stood that again, I can tell you. Nan and Jerry are delighted, and the girls who pin hopes in stitches over a joke their children do not at all understand. I think Anne and I half understand – something about the fact that Nan was right to have waited her children, given they never arrive singly. They are Harriet and Beatrice. Beatrice, naturally, another Shakespeare Girl for Nan, and born indeed under a dancing star by my reckoning; Harriet, as promised after the remarkable and writerly Miss Vane of Sayers, even down to her middle name. Mandy is delighted with them and says among other things, how lucky it is that she never got Miri's taste for literature, otherwise she should feel quite left out. Anne overheard this and said wasn't Amanda literary too, something in mystery fiction? Yes, Mandy said, Marjorie Allingham's answer to Harriet Vane, but it didn't count as a namesake if the character was created _after_ you were born.

Here Nan interjected to say it was the other way around, really; that Miss Fitton _did_ come after Mandy, but only because the women were writing all round back when she was still nameless. Nan said she'd always liked Amanda, and the rest was history. I had no idea. (But the spawning of literary heroines aside, Nan and I still tacitly agree that Mandy's got rather the loveliest origin-story for her name of all the girls.) As it is, Mandy spends her free hours sketching the babies in their various moods, which are many.

They've arrived just in time for Miri to meet them. She and Miss Janie depart for England after Easter, and then travel onwards to Europe from there. That should see them through the summer, leaving her lots of time to forge memories with the little girls. Complete, as she periodically points out to me, with wonderful stories to tell them. Maybe so, but I am no more convinced of the virtue of this plan now than I was when we last spoke about it. On the other hand, she's fired up with excitement like a flame, and so like her mother that I'm unsurprised by Jerry's failure to deny her. She promises to write faithfully, and be home in good time for the babies to begin creating memories of her. I should hope so, too. _Someone_ needs to indoctrinate them into the nonsense-patois that she shares with Mandy, and you know Mandy. She's much too busy sketching to do it. Let it never be said that the infancy of the young Misses Meredith goes undocumented, I suppose.

In other news, you were quite right about the Challow boy being keen on Mandy. Though I disagree with you about her not noticing. I think it's more that she presently finds her sketches more interesting. Certainly they spend enough time together, which is no small thing with Mandy. As you say, Miri can fall easily into a friendship when she chooses. Mandy is much more like one of my mother's cats; positively choosey about her people. I can count on one finger the number of people not Miri she gives her time to, and the brunt of those are family. Never mind she's not afraid to chop fingers off. Give it time; I think you may yet be able to say _I told you so_ in the case of Michael Challow.

I'll see you shortly, and expect pictures when I do. Until then, as ever,

Love and blessings,

Gil

* * *

Ingleside,  
Glen St. Mary,  
April, 1936

Jo,

As promised, here is word to say we arrived safely back at Ingleside. It is much as we left it, though perhaps with more dust. Susan has, lately, fallen behind on the task of upkeep, and while Di does her best to combat this, combined demands of the paper and children make success difficult. So she was profusely apologetic as we stepped over the threshold, and Dulce positively ecstatic. I made the mistake of bending over to pat her head, and was thereafter held hostage for a full quarter of an hour while she ministered to my face. I gather I smelled of the Challow Collie and Travel, neither of which was acceptable. Possibly of the Stanovitch Mouser Cat too, which was still less tolerable.

When I finally resurfaced from the ministrations of Dulce, Di demanded a full report on the babies. I told her what I could around an armful of ecstatic Miss Abby. Apparently she had herself convinced we would never come back, and _then_ that the young Misses Meredith had replaced her and Hector.

Once all of this had been adequately cleared up, all were anxious to know how _you_ were fairing. Naomi, obviously, is still away, and we were last to see you in Kingsport. I'm sure I asked of you then, but if it comes to that, one is never the same moment to moment after a loss.

Accordingly, how are you? Ellie and no doubt Ruthie and Naomi too will think that is my doubting their ability to look after you, but it really isn't. Appease them by explaining it is a general 'you' to be applied to the whole collective of Blakes, now less the best and brightest light of the lot of them. People talk about how it gets easier, and still others divide it into _before_ and _after_. I have never, personally, experienced the _after_ , only a _since. After_ implies a break in experience that I have never felt. There is, in fact, disturbing continuity adhering to my dead, and from the way I have sometimes heard John remember Cecilia, I do not think that this is unique to me. And while you are living the _since_ , because no one, I think, can do more than that, or not at first, the very least I can do is ask after you.

I can also pass on to Naomi word that the paper is not floundering hopelessly without her, and she is under strict orders by doctors and colleagues both, to take all the time she needs. The International News Desk will assuredly suffer for it, but since International News is anyways grim, and also of far lesser importance than your welfare, I have no qualms in prescribing she take her time visiting with you. In the unlikely event that things look particularly dire, I solemnly promise to extract Kitty from _The Globe_ and conscript her into keeping the Arnold column of the _Echo_ afloat until your daughter can return to it. She owes us a visit in any case. Alice, in the interrum is seeing to such mundanities as the upkeep of the house. She apologises ahead if her standard is not quite your daughter's.

By far the least complicated conundrum this season has been the Glen's stalwart attitude to its doctor. They _still_ cannot get used to being primarily in the hands of a Dr. Meredith. The fact that Bruce is competent, has grown up here, and is beloved by the lot of them counts not a jot. The fact that he saw to all of them capably and competently in my most recent absence matters still less. I have half a mind to get Faith to write another of her articles up for the paper explaining the error of this. Clearly, I have had run of the Glen too long on my own.

Thinking of you, and all of yours. Love ever,

Gil

* * *

Martyrs' Manse,  
Kingsport,  
April, 1936

Gil,

We do indeed exist on a continuum. It is spring now, but I keep forgetting, notwithstanding the lengthening days and the early sunrises. I was out rambling with the wee ones the other day and came up positively short when our ramble brought us abreast of Patty's Place. Memories were thicker there than ever, of Friday Nights, the dances we went out to – even of the mauling my hands used to take at the hands of the Rusty-cat! He really didn't care for anyone but your Anne, did he? Amidst all of that, I made the mistake of looking up, and recognised at once the funny little window that bespoke Phil's room behind the kitchen. I suppose I should be heartened to find it unchanged; a kindred spirit must have inherited it, be sure to tell Anne. All I felt was an awful gnawing, a need to slip backward somehow in time. And then Evie coiled her arms around me and I wondered how I could ever wish for a time that did not include her and the other little ones, the laughs Phil and I had shared over their cumulative scrapes, the limbs we had kissed and nursed while their parents sought respite. Jake's Andrew tugged at my hand to say we were falling behind the others, and anyway, what _was_ the story of the house that made it so important? Weren't houses just houses? Joanie told him with an imperiousness that Phil would have been proud of that only _city_ children thought that. After which, how could I not intervene to stem an argument with a story? I don't know if they understood, exactly, only that it was good to fall into such golden reminiscences as How Rusty Was Not Chloroformed and Convocation, even Alec and Alonzo, ad how Phil never could choose between them. The look on Evie's face, Gil, at the notion her grandmother had ever been attached to anyone else! Before it might have got me to laugh. Since – now – I only felt over again the depth and keenness of that all-encompassing love of Phil's, or rather, felt the ghost of it.

I don't suppose they will stay much longer, and that is as it should be. Jake has work in Halifax, and Naomi has the paper to get back to – we, neither of us, want to disrupt Kitty's holiday, and we also, neither of us, trust anyone else with her column. Sam will be nearby though, Sam with so much of Phil in him; her mathematical mind, her sharpness and playfulness, and the little girls and their mother too. I am suddenly, selfishly glad that that bank of Sam's relocated him to Kingsport. The circumstances were hardly ideal, but this would appear to be the silver lining.

I am also enclosing a testimonial in praise of Dr. Meredith in the interest of giving you the respite you have so much earned. Tell Ed Morris and company they can fit it into the newspaper as and where it makes most sense. And pass on my congratulations to your Wandering Merediths. I have been remiss in not commenting earlier. I think I must have said to Una, to stop her feeling the need to talk around the girls in her letters, and thereafter forgot the rest of you. Forgive me. Phil would be horrified. If you have pictures spare, send them on. There's quite a few of us here who are interested of knowing how much likeness there is between this new set of twins and their predecessors.

Be well, do good work, and keep in touch,

Jo

* * *

New Manse,  
Glen St Mary,  
May, 1936

Jo,

This is to let you know Naomi and family are safely returned to the Young Arnold House. I called in on them this afternoon and found the Cricket Club in voluble session around the coffee table. Baby Gordon is trying and failing to make inroads into the set, and succeeding only inasmuch as the idea of having a real-live doll would seem to appeal to Miss Abby. She does not exactly understand about supporting his head, but then, he does not appear bothered by this detail. Dulce was there too, gnawing leisurely on a birch log, while Snowy eyed her dubiously from the lap of one of the Morris boys. Naomi was out at the paper when I got in, so I passed a pleasant quarter-hour with Fred Arnold, who echoed your sentiments last letter about praying by doing. He cites the paper as Naomi's version of this, and he is probably not wrong.

I should like to say news here is lighter. Certainly it is beginning to become quite the joke between Bruce and Alice that the Glen still cleaves to poor Gil for all medical emergencies, but I fear that is about the best we can manage. Except to add that Ken Ford is taking his family to some Yankee place for this summer's holiday. Lake Devine or some such. Susan is, as you'll appreciate, quite incensed at the notion. She tells anyone who will listen that it's bad enough, his whisking baby Rilla and Little Kitchener off to Toronto the way he did, and only Providence that has saved them all from an early demise living in That Awful Place. But to summer _abroad_ – Susan has no words. She holds court primarily from her kitchen room, whence Gil has forcibly confined her after an especially bad attack. Gil says behind doors that Susan cannot stand up to many more attacks on that scale, and worries additionally that as and when we lose her it will set Abby back in the progress she has been making with venturing away from Ingleside.

That's all the news at our end. I wish it could be better, but there it is.

Thinking of you, and love and blessings always,

J.M.

* * *

 _Those of you who have read your Elinor Lipman will recognise The Inn at Lake Devine, established 1935, if I remember right. Needless to say, I do not own it. But if you have not, for some, unthinkable reason, read Lipman, you are missing one of Austen's great literary inheritors and are ordered to rectify this directly._

 _Nan's writing continues, as you've now realised, my bit of fictive indulgence. For what it's worth, the Detection Club, to which Sayers, Christie and Allingham all belong, was absolutely an international organisation, so this correspondence between them isn't quite as outlandish as it might seem._

 _Thanks, ever to all of you reading and/or reviewing. An extra thanks to wow, as I can't acknowledge you elsewhere. I love hearing from all of you._


	32. Chapter 32

Ingleside,  
Glen St. Mary,  
May 1936

Susan Baker has died. An era has gone with her. No one ever did get the recipe for a Silver-and-Gold cake off of her, nor learn her secret to hot crossed buns. The way she set the twist on wool is lost to the universe, as is the way she got the silver exactly the right degree of gleaming.

Cornelia took it very hard; she never expected to outlast that last, long winter, much less Susan Baker. Mary says that when the news came up the line she pressed her lips together, awful close and did not speak again for a whole half hour. Then she picked up her knitting – this in spite of her twisted hands – and said,'I suppose we will all find the world a mite quieter – and I daresay duller – from now on. There's spice in arguing that keeps things interesting.'

She isn't wrong about the quiet. I do not believe I had appreciated before how much of the mundane bustle and rattle of Ingleside owed to Susan, her pots, pans and cast-iron skillets, the vim with which she put a wash on.

The worst was telling the children. When Walter died, you know, I came to the girls in person. I was halfway out the door to do it again – I felt I owed Shirley that – when I realised I had only got away with the scheme before because I had left Anne and Rilla to Susan. And there _was_ no Susan. That was the whole _point_. I mean, obviously the deaths were a different colour and shape to one another, but Susan was ever more than housekeeper, whatever the Glen might think. She was a bastion of support in the dark hours of the war, and she kept us going when Joy died. Later, when otherwise it should have been Anne and I clattering around the house like so many loose casters on a rickshaw, and before Di came home, she sat with us and worked with us and kept up a stream of such continual talk that we could almost delude ourselves into thinking the house was still full.

It has all gone on as leaves on the wind. Or perhaps grass. That's in the Bible, isn't it, _all flesh is as grass_? A strange thought when the grass is coming through, new and green. Soon Susan's calceolarias will join it in flourishing and there will be no one to love them. Anne will tend them, of course, but it was Susan who mothered them.

Anyway, I couldn't take Anne away to Kingsport because of Susan laid out in her room off of the kitchen. Or I could, but that meant leaving Di, Alastair and the children alone with her, and I couldn't do that either. They will have their hands full placating the children without making funeral arrangements. And I couldn't land those on Anne while I gadded off to Kingsport, even if John would take over the detail-work and Rosemary the afterwards. Instead I picked up the telephone, feeling like a coward, and thought how stupid this was, considering we've had years since the war to transmit things other than death through the telephone.

Iain answered, which caught me off-guard, not being at all what I expected. Shirley was out, apparently, something about an Elie farmer's trouble with Johnes' Disease. He was very keen on the subject, and I have to confess I wasn't wholly listening. At some point before our statutory three minutes cut out, his mother took over the phone, only I didn't feel up to springing the news on Mara either. I felt, oddly, that Shirley ought to hear first, if anyone did. Especially over the telephone with the chattering pips and the hum of other peoples' receivers. I guess I just had visions of telling Mara and _The Chronicle_ getting to hear of it, and so Kitty, and thence Larkrise. (Never mind that Kitty has long since deserted _The Chronicle_ for _The Globe_ in Toronto.)

I rang off, and made tea badly; it was weak, watery and not at all Susan's grade. Di and Anne never noticed. Neither did the children, and not only because theirs was well-milked and sugared. Hector sat like a statue not drinking his at all, and Miss Abby was much the wildest I'd ever seen her, red-eyed and keening. I got her in my arms and she writhed like an eel, beating her hands against my shoulders. Di offered to take over, at some point, but I wanted her close, the sunny, sweet smell of her, and the kick of her knees against my chest to remind me the world was still turning. Somewhere along the way, she wore herself out and I carried her off to bed, Anne following, sheepdog fashion, with Hector. Alastair found them later, coiled like kittens around each other in a donut of Tabaco-stripe limbs. Obviously Abby had made what is now her almost-habitual trip to Hector's room the better to sleep.

Only then, the day worn long, did I risk the long-distance and called back to Fox Corner. This time I got Shirley straight off. I'd say he took the news hard, except of course I wasn't there, and it might have been the infernal pips or static on the line, or anything. And obviously after that I didn't dare 'phone _back_ and quiz Mara; she was bound to have her hands full with sorting the fall-out without that. I didn't know quite what to say after the worst was over, so just kept on saying how very sorry I was – because that's what you do, isn't it? _Weep with those who weep_ , et&. Not that there was any weeping in the three-minute trunk call.

Then Shirley said, apropos of nothing, 'She'll have been pleased to have seen the Silver Jubilee, I guess,' and I didn't know what to say to that _at all_. I guess he worked that one out, even all those miles away, because he said next, 'It was peaceful?'

'Like falling asleep,' I said, which was true; Anne thought Susan _was_ asleep when she found her in her rocker by the fire. She'd got halfway through the 20th row of what was to be a blanket for Isobel. Anne counted the rows. No one has the heart to finish it. I didn't say any of that though. I'm not sure Shirley believed even as much as I said; I get the distinct impression he and Jem – and perhaps John's lads too, and yours – will never believe in a peaceful death ever again.

The pips were rattling off the seconds by then, so Shirley said last thing to be sure and say when the funeral was to be, and he'd come down for it; they all would. We rang off, and I braced my heart and nerved my arm to call the rest of the children, but not before thanking God that Nan and Jerry are on a telephone line in their current place at Struan.

I called Larkrise next, but no one was in, nor at the Carlisles, and I deduced they must all be at Fox Corner together. I felt childishly grateful that Shirley would be able to tell the others in person. I rang Toronto after that – a tremendous extravagance given the distance, but necessary – and got Liam, who sounded so grown up I thought I'd got the wrong number. In a voice several octaves deeper than I remember, he said, 'Mother's sitting up sewing with the Ladies of Rosedale Presbyterian Sewing Circle. Can I take a message?'

He could not (rather I couldn't leave one with him), so asked him to have her return the call whenever she finished with the Sewing Circle and reverse the charge. Liam said was it urgent, because he could always ring up the manse office and have Miss McLellan loan Rilla the phone, but I said no, it wasn't urgent. This kind of somnambulant death is not urgent. Lethargic maybe. It was nothing that wouldn't keep until Rilla returned the call.

Nan answered the phone directly, for which her father's everlasting gratitude. Nan is very strict about that phone and who has access to it. So that was all right. She was making plans and detailing packing arrangements even before our three minutes were up. Di, of course, was with us. She took over sitting with Susan after I insisted Anne lie down. As I write, she is still sitting with Susan still, one wide pianist's hand folded around one of Susan's brown, calloused ones. I couldn't help but notice a window left open as I went past and were Anne not asleep I might ask her to speculate on what Susan would say about Ingleside being invaded by so much superstition. (It occurs to me there is a prayer to go with the window-opening, though I do not think Di knows it any more than I do, or if anyone has said it. I suppose it gives me a conversational in the next time Mara answers the Fox Corner telephone.)

Rilla called back just as I was going in search of Susan to see what had become of tea on the veranda. Apparently all those telephone calls later it _still_ hadn't taken. It didn't take with Rilla either. She laughed that short, sharp laugh that dates back to the days of Walter dying and said, 'Susan dead? Susan can't be dead.' Then she pulled herself together and said, 'You'll forgive me, I must just ring Little Kitchener.'

I had no idea what she meant, and remembered only as I rang off that that was what Susan had used to call Jims. He's down in Montreal, taking his second degree in engineering. I won't even pretend to understand the particulars. Rilla's not wrong though; he'll want to know. Susan and her monkey faces were a childhood staple of his, especially.

That's the lot. Do forgive the letter, Jo; it's far longer than you will ever have time to read in one sitting. I owe you a favour in return. What would it be? You have only to name the thing and it is done.

Love always,

Gil

* * *

Martyrs' Manse,  
Kingsport,  
May,1936

Gil,

Don't be absurd. There is no toll for sitting with the grieving. A poor minister I'd make if there were, especially when we have so often had cause to share our joys.

I have just come from Fox Corner, where, indeed, your Kingsport Contingent have forgathered. The children are atypically quiet, even the little Carlisles. Isobel is the exception, and seems to be crying her share and the others' several times over. This has left her excessively red-eyed and worn out in consequence. Iain and Christopher, by Jem's reckoning, are just at that age where they feel that as boys they _cannot_ cry, which must be trying; certainly Helen and little Sophy are short with them – abnormal especially for Helen, as you'll realise.

The children are all taking it in different ways. Teddy and Mara have both been baking, as has Judith Carlisle, with the result I was quite spoiled for choice of niceties this visit. It's been a mild, even cool May, but the house was warm as a bread oven, and awash in smells of fresh bannocks (Mara), lemon pound cake (Teddy – with a generous portion of lemon zest from the smell, I shouldn't wonder) and rugalesh (you can guess who from; none of ours have ever mastered it).

By the time I came in, Faith and Jem were running through Susan's symptoms of the last year like a diagnosis, with occasional input from Helen and Christopher. Teddy had got Isobel in his lap and was doing things towards soothing her, which I suspect has won him Mara's gratitude into the next ten years or so. Mharie – you'll recall that's her sister – was engaged with the Carlisle children (the ones still at home) and Sophy in pick-up sticks, while Judith ceded the teapot to Mara. Shirley did not say much of anything at all, though he looked the way people so often do when they think they ought to have been present for the death in question.

I sat down by him, and joined him in not saying anything as I accepted my cup of Ceylon. Feeling he ought to, I suppose, he asked how was I bearing up? Also after the Martyrs' congregation as was, which was more conversation than I had anticipated. I said it was all still the height of unreal, that Ellie, Ruthie and Naomi were going to sort through Phil's things for the ACS and assorted charities this summer and I was stealing myself for the event. I couldn't bring myself to talk about the burials of so many unclaimed dead I have taken to ministering to at Faith's hospital, so did not do his inquiry after my former congregation the justice it was probably due. I _did_ say there was always a place up at the manse when he wanted it. Shirley nodded, and I think was really glad of this; certainly he was there promptly on Sunday last. He turned up as I was setting off for Hope Park and Martyrs' and asked did I mind, he sort of fancied my theology over Rev Hannigan's. I could hardly turn him away, so we held church us two gathered together, and I hazard we both felt the best we have in a long time.

All that came later. I was telling you of my visit to Fox Corner. Invitation extended, we fell silent. I nursed my Mull pottery cup with its Ceylon contents, and thought how bold and full-bodied it was; strong enough, I suppose, to pull everyone through the ordeal.

'I did not know,' said Shirley without warning, 'how strange the world would be without her.'

I said we never did, which seemed a paltry thing to say to the son of an age-old friend in the face of such loss. But then, neither was it the time for sermonizing on the life after death, or about how death comes at the end to all of us. I do not say it cannot be done; John would carry it off admirably, and perhaps, for you, he has. I broke a slice of lemon pound cake in half and offered the larger portion to him. Shirley took it, studied it and set it on his saucer. After a bit he nodded towards his family and said, 'They have the luxury of taking it all literally. Communion and the Resurrection of the Body, and all the rest. But that's not our doctrine, is it?'

No need to ask what had made him think of it, of course. No easy way, either, of parsing Presbyterian Doctrine. We sat there, with our Mull pottery, and I thought, of all things, of John's account of my daughter when Phil died. _Not dead – in Christ, I should say_ , he tells me she said. I wondered, Mull pottery warm in my hands, what it said that my daughter, with her undergraduate degree in English and Divinity had a better grasp of Resurrection Theology than I ever will have. One is supposed to talk about Matthew. About _where your treasure is, there will your heart be also_. And yet, it was plainly not the answer he wanted. Why would he? How could anyone want an answer like that? To hear, in their loss that their loved one had left earth because they put Christ foremost in their hearts, had chosen His Kingdom over all else? _I_ hadn't wanted it, and it's my own doctrine. In the end, I did a thing I never do, and resorted to my books. John has more of them and knows them better, but I have always been struck by Augustine on the theme of death;

 _The cross upon Golgotha, thou lookest to in vain,  
_ _Unless within thyself it be put up again_.

There's more to it, of course, but that is the relevant piece. To know the Resurrection is to fight for it, and to walk in the way of the Cross, even at dark hours, and not only that, but to carry the Easter light of it always in one's heart. And goodness knows, in her own practical way, Susan did this, whether it was in the baking she lavished on her family, or the socks she knit up for the war. She knew what to say when Jem went missing and the rest of us did not (even if, as you later recounted your Swallowgate visit, it was Nan that put the Dog Monday idea in her head), and when to run up the flag when her people were most downcast. She wept with you over Walter and Joy, and rejoiced in the children's weddings. I still remember her fondly as she was at St. Margaret's that June; equal parts horrified by the ritual, but then too, so very glad for her little brown boy. I said all this, though I don't know if it did much good. I hope and pray it did.

Regretfully I could not stay long afterwards; I had a dying man to see to, and felt I owed it to him to be early. They don't always want to talk all at once, with the sentence hanging over them. I mean to go back in a day or two. There is always time here, to _weep with those who weep_.

Forgive the sermon, Gil. You cannot possibly want one. I have promised Shirley as many more Sundays hereafter as he feels equal to, and would extend it to all of you. I have no church now, but I still have a God, and I hope understanding, and all the time in the world for you and yours. Thinking of you, and may you, even through this, be well, do good work, and keep in touch.

Jo

* * *

Ingleside,  
Glen St. Mary,  
June 1936

Jo,

I was glad to hear you were coming down for the service. That will do Gil and Anne the world of good, I am sure. It has been a long few days, the children flocking back like sheep to the fold. We keep trying to bring them all together, of course, but this was never supposed to be the occasion. Kitty came down with the Fords from Toronto, and Teddy travelled with the rest from Kingsport. (This, incidentally, included the Carlisles. Kingsport had better hope no one is brutally and ritually murdered this weekend, as I do not think poor Benwick would much relish heading that operation.)

Di has been preparing food pretty well since the news broke; there was no room in the Ingleside larder for the surplus brought from Kingsport and Toronto. We put as much of it as was possible into our pantry and after that the cold room, but as Rosemary had had a similar thought, the space was not much and in the end we sent Teddy, Mara and Judith with the Fords to the House of Dreams to install the excess there. When even that looked unlikely to do things justice, Naomi offered loan of her pantry. She has been very good through all of this; calling round with food and sitting with her people long into the evening. Joanie and Pip are the same, for all they're so little. They wheel Hector onto the veranda and play at Chinese Checkers or Majong, or similar and make small talk over little things to keep their contemporaries abreast of the current of normal life. Dulce does her part too, ever lounging on feet and nuzzling hands. She has a conviction that one day Hector will let her wash his face, but it has not happened yet.

Jerry and Jem struck me as quite unbelieving, Nan too, whereas Shirley seemed only very tried. I suppose he knew more than the others of Susan and how she got on. I seem to recall her weekly indulgence was a telephone call to Fox Corner on Fridays.

Mandy appeared stunned, but in that dreamlike way of people who feel a death without having ever known the person well. Neither she nor Miri, after all, was on the Island much in their more grown-up years. I make 1932 their last visit, for the burial of Di's baby. I remember then that they were very good with Di's children, and this was almost the same. Miri's absence whistles through the set like a breeze, and though Mandy certainly takes her cue from your Naomi's children in her ministrations, it's plain she is flummoxed by little Abby. She was, you'll recall Miri's pet in olden days.

You'll be glad to hear that travelling sufficiently wore Isobel out that she had no energy spare for tears. Mind you, I think that's true of the whole Fox Corner set. They left the visitation last of all, Shirley having fallen by default, in the Glen's mindset, into the position of grieving relative. Of course, I think they view all the Inglesideans that way, but him especially. Even Iain noticed. When I first came in to write to you, it was to find him asleep on the hearthrug. He came to immediately I came in though, and in the privacy of the study, climbed up onto my lap – awkward now that he has grown so tall – and demanded a Very Serious Conversation about where people go when they die.

I'll leave you to imagine how that went, except to remind you of that memorable occasion years ago, when he turned to his mother on the way out of church and demanded to know why the priest was sending them home before giving anyone the Body of Christ. I really don't think it had occurred to Susan before that that those children were getting their theology anywhere besides Martyrs'. The time I had not joining Gil and the others in laughing! This wasn't so different, except that at no point did I feel compelled to laughter. I got out my old Gideon confirmation bible, and I gave him John 11. Dangerous, possibly, given, as you've observed before, the literalism Rome can bring to things. With Isobel, I probably would have found _God shall wipe away all tears_ or something.

Iain though, listened to the end, and then, in spite of the impending service – or maybe because of it – started in on his usual dozen questions; what did it mean to never die; would Susan come back, and when, and how long would it take. Would she look the same? Because he remembered the disciples didn't recognise Christ right away, and he wouldn't want to miss her, or hurt her feelings. I let him exhaust them and asked in my turn what he remembered most about Susan. Her fudge, he said, quick as anything. I told him about the first time we met – it certainly left an impression. That got him to laugh, and from there we got to what it means to carry people with you; the way they come back to you in long-after-years. Had he ever heard his grandmother mention his uncle Walter? He had, yes, and Joy also. I asked if he thought maybe he could remember Susan the same way; he said he supposed we just had been.

That seemed enough catechising to be getting on with, and I made to send him on his way. He got as far as the door when he asked if I'd mind writing out the verses for him – the ones we'd read. I gave him the whole pocket bible. The print is so impossibly close that I am confident the year is coming I will be reading it only by memory in any case, and of all our grandchildren, adopted and otherwise, I fancy he will love it best. After that I sent him on his way lest anyone miss him. I had the feeling that Shirley-like, he probably hadn't thought to tell anyone where he was disappearing to in the first place.

I'll go up again in the evening and take stock of them all for you. But I thought I had better give them breathing space for the time being. Besides, arrangements have meant I still have not written Una and Carl to inform them. They will be sorry to miss the service, I am sure. Hard to believe this time a year ago Rosemary and I were visiting with them. _Time like an ever rolling stream_ does indeed bear us all on our way. Though Anne was quite right that Remembrance Sunday years ago; they are not forgotten, our dead, as dreams or otherwise.

Expect another letter to follow. Come quickly, Jo.

Love and blessings,

J.M.

* * *

Ingleside,  
Glen St Mary,  
June 1936

Jo,

I suppose if nothing else it was a fine day for the service – don't you think? This is as well; Anne has never been able to bear grey funerals, though I don't suppose Susan would have minded. She was always far more preoccupied with the soundness of the theology in practice.

I write this in the face of having found Mara beside her, beads in hand, bargaining for a soul's safe passage. Did I tell you about that? The last time I found her that way it was at Poppy's bedside, demanding honesty of me. I couldn't tell her no one was dying this time, and for a while the only sound between us was the gentle clacking of her beads .Then she lifted both shoulders expressively and said, 'She'd never forgive me changing theological horses _now_ of all times. And someone must do it.'

The thing is, Jo, she was right, and we both knew it. For all the gentle arguing over kitchens and Romishness, those two understood each other in a way few people could parse. They had Shirley in common, that was part of it, but there was also, I think, a shared belief that to change opinions on God meant one could change them on anything. So Susan stood Iain's talk of Mass, and Isobel's baptism by Fr Emmery, while she opined at them between-times on how cards on Sunday were unthinkable and the theological application of tulips, and it all came out in the wash somehow. I left Mara to whatever last rite she was ministering, and wasn't really all that surprised to find later that she had swapped rosary beads for that blanket meant for Isobel.

'Something to do,' she said, when I asked, though Anne said later, and I think she was right, that the impulse owed as much to the McNeilly inability to let anything go to waste as anything else.

But I had meant to write of the funeral. To thank you for coming, and to get it down on paper, I suppose. Let there be a record, and all that. I was struck – were you? – by the sun coming through the slats of the birches around the Glen church in swatches, the way it sent rainbow prisms cascading across the pews.

The McAllister contingent have just donated a new window – Christ on the water – in particularly blocky colours that makes Christ look rather seasick; you must have noticed. In bygone days Susan would have _vastly_ disapproved of it, and Anne and I should have tried valiantly to supress our mirth. No need for that, as it was. Someone – Di, I think – had taken a cutting of the calceolarias and arranged them up at the front, along with the June lilies Anne does so well by – for the Resurrection, one supposes. I've always thought they smell waxy, almost like candles. John assures me they smell of the Resurrection. Which is it, do you suppose? Or is it both?

It was a lovely service. The pair of you acquitted yourselves expertly. I don't know who thought to include _Who is this Fair One In Distress_ for the introit hymn, but Susan always appreciated it. John gave a sermon Susan will be sorry to have missed, and the same is true of your prayers. You know what stock Susan set by a good intercessor.

But the burial. I know summer days are long, but I cannot remember one so long as this. Everyone, it seemed, had a remembrance to pass on, or a casserole, or a condolence. Shirley got the brunt of this, though the rest of us had our share likewise; especially once Cornelia cornered him, and then Norman Douglas with Ellen. I milled around the refreshments and affected to eat things, but was not especially hungry. Is anyone, ever, after a funeral? The children certainly weren't; they looked by turns a bad combination of bruised, tired and pinched. I kept finding them out and sequestering them into hugs between well-wishes, once intervening to extricate a cold, pale Rilla from the gloomy musings of Sophia Crawford, who had grand, Calvinist opinions on the occasion. (Don't take that as a jab at your church, Jo; Sophia Crawford is an amalgam of all the grimmest, greyest bits of our theology under the sun, and that you may tie to.)

The little ones hardly fared better, Hector and Abby least of all. Somewhere between the Crawford Intervention and an ambush by Mary Douglas, Faith and I conspired to set the little ones up in Bruce's old room to sleep. Miss Abby was miles from her ebullient self, and in no state to be subjected to the whims of the masses, and Isobel not much better. Forgive me; you must have noticed all this. I got a girl under each arm while Faith did battle with a protesting Hector, and got an elbow to her ear for the trouble. Teddy Lovall came afterwards and sat vigil over them, and Mandy with him. She's never been much for mass gatherings and is even less so without Miri. That it gave her an excuse to get Harriet and Beatrice out from underfoot was an added bonus, as they were getting overtired themselves.

Anyway, that freed up Faith and I fine to do our best by the others. Faith got Norman and his bombast away from Shirley, and Cornelia was on the receiving end on one of Ellen's tirades – I don't know what about. Jem, Jerry and Nan had converged in a knot that did not invite of outsiders, though it did not stop Irene Howard inserting herself to inform them that she had always said Susan was too outspoken for her place and didn't this prove her point. A magnificent Gertrude Grant rode to the rescue _there_ , and saved me the trouble.

Di had retreated to the sanctity of Rosemary's kitchen while Kitty tried to interest Helen and Sophy in finger sandwiches. Judith found me out to ask what we'd done with the babies and ended by sending Sophy and Sissy after them, which was much the best idea anyone had all that afternoon. Christopher drifted over to Faith and clung to her like a limpet for the remainder, while Jims whisked the boys outside to some secluded corner of the universe. When I next looked out the window, they were playing an improvised game of boules and Olive Drew was saying how surprising it was that little Jims was so unaffected by Susan Baker's death, but then perhaps that was what came of being a foundling brought up in a soup tureen, and it just went to show how there was no affecting character. Betty Morris gave her the kind of deadly look that put even Rilla's cold, pale tone to shame and said what a heartening sight it was to see Jims looking out for his brothers like that, if anyone wanted _her_ opinion. Amy McAllister as was said there was no need to take such offence; _she_ had never heard of a boules game at a funeral before, and it occurred to me to wonder why, after all these years, little Amy was _still_ trying to impress Irene and Olive. In an unthinking moment I voiced this thought and was rewarded by Miranda Mulgrave's observation that some people had no gumption, and no one had less than Amy. We traded tentative smiles and departed to desperate interventions.

Miranda stopped Gertrude short of the murder of Miss Howard, and once I had established Mara had got care of Shirley, I went and saw to Anne. I did look for you, but you seemed engrossed in conversation with Rilla, and I didn't like to interfere. She looked as if she needed your particular kind of practical ministry. I'm afraid we quite lost track of Iain until afterwards, when he slipped noiseless into Ingleside and took up residence in the kitchen. Di found him there much later, pouring over what I make John's old Gideon, when she went to start on supper. He was decidedly red-eyed, but then all the children were. Old Kitty Alec, were she still alive, would have had opinions on _that,_ you can be sure. As it was, the dubious honours fell to Sophia Crawford, who had still not departed our company. I returned from a nursery run to find Cornelia doing a credible impression of Aerius at the Council of Nicea and all but boxing that vexed woman's ears. I wish she had. Susan certainly would have.

For all that, I'm still not sure what Susan would have made of it. She did love a funeral for the gossip, and a chance to say her piece on anything, but I can't help remembering that even when the war was on she only took to speech-giving under duress. She used to say she knew her place and would stick to it. I can't help feeling rather a little that she would think we pushed her out of it this afternoon. Still, she couldn't have faulted the thoroughness of the occasion, and that you may tie to.

More to come later. There is a line somewhere, I think, about God gathering his children to him as a hen does her chicks; I make no pretentions to Godliness, but feel I must do the same by mine. But thank you for coming, Jo. You cannot possibly have felt up to it, and I know you have your own people who need you, whether they're condemned, dying, or dead and without home. Not forgetting Patterson St. Shirley says you've been as good as your word giving over your time, and I'm grateful. Perhaps it is only the two of you, but never think it goes unnoticed. You're doing the thing for him that I cannot, and I'm more grateful for that than any letter could convey.

Love ever,

Gil

* * *

Martyrs' Manse,  
Kingsport,  
July, 1936

Gil,

Think nothing of it. My unofficial congregation would appear to be growing steadily. It was never supposed to be that; I thought at first that it was little more than an effort to stem the worst of Shirley's grief. But you know how word travels. Someone must have seen him dropping in of a Sunday, or perhaps Isobel or Evie mentioned it to one of the Patterson St children. They do sometimes run together. But one way or another, old friends began dropping in. Alan Caxley 'just happened' to stop by some weeks back, and then Edie Gilfordand Grace Conway with her little girl came with luncheon and a wish to hear something 'what has sense to it' as Edie said. Shirley didn't mind, and I could hardly turn them away.

It's blossomed from there, like something out of Acts or the synoptics. Jem and Faith have begun defecting with the children, and Faith especially teases me about Christ at the sea of Galilee. There is no need for a boat yet, and likely never will be. We _have_ migrated to the harbour though, now the days are warm. The people sit on the lobster traps and the pier, the children run amok, and I try not to feel absurd as I weave between them and offer up a lesson or two. It isn't very difficult – I mean, there's a _rightness_ to it that I haven't felt in a long time. There's no lectionary, and certainly no choir, but that hasn't stopped us making a joyful noise and worshipping in our own way. There's always a meal afterwards, with whatever surplus the fishers have caught, and there's even talk of Angus Murdo bringing his bible to future sessions to guarantee lectionary. The more it goes on, the more it begins to feel dangerously close to a church. I should object, or demure, but Rev. Hannigan has his hands full, and I have _missed_ this like a limb, like breathing. I had not known how inextricably wound around my soul were these people until I lost them, and if I cannot have Phil by me, then I can at least have them back. I have no idea what we will do in the winter, but no doubt we'll work that out when the snow comes. Until then, we are all stemming a gap for one another, and I am glad.

Be well, do good work, and keep in touch.

Jo

P.S. Jake's boys have developed a worrisome fascination with affairs in Spain. Needless to say, I don't like it at all. It's not the same with yours, is it?

* * *

New Manse, Glen St. Mary, July, 1936

Jo,

Here the people most preoccupied with the Spanish Civil War would appear to be Bruce, Jims, and little Liam. They keep falling into talking about it when together. For obvious reasons, none of us like it at all. It's one of the rare subjects that, at the present moment anyway, has the ability to provoke Alice into argument with Bruce, while Anthony is uncharacteristically quiet and Sissy – who adores Jims – sticks closer to him and looks wider-eyed than ever.

In another life, Naomi would probably have made inroads towards the organising of an outreach project. As it is, the children and the newspaper have the bulk of her time, and anyway, she's as tired as any of the rest of us of wars. I think that's the part that stings most, don't you? The fact that years ago – recently even – we fought a war for the world that was the death knell of wars. Well, then Japan invaded China. I probably wouldn't have noticed but for Carl and Una. And now Spain is what Susan would have called 'catawumpus' and Gil calls in crisis, and I wonder if it will ever end.

I was listening with half an ear the other day as Jims worked some miracle on our temperamental telephone line, and I found myself wondering about the possibility of slipping through time. I must have voiced the thought, because Jims paused in whatever it was he was doing to the line and said thoughtfully, 'like in _The Time Machine_ , you mean?' I said something like that, and asked where he'd go. He mulled it over, between disconnecting and reconnecting pieces of 'phone, but finally shook his head and said he had no idea. He figured if God had meant for us to go through time He'd have made it possible. It was so nearly what Susan once said about aeroplanes that I had to laugh.

'Where would you go?' he said, finishing with the phone. There was no way to say I'd go back to the days of birch cups and frogs at Sunday school; to striped stocking misadventures, or even just to the era when little Andrew Blake swallowing a whole bottle of Redfern's Purple Pills was called an emergency. I shook my head and said I thought he probably had it right about God and the fixity of time. But now I've started down this path, where and when would you go, if you could? And would you do it over again, given the chance? That's the part I really can't decide, when it comes to the point. After all, we are ourselves, flaws and all, and I can't think but that I've grown from mine, as much as they've cost me.

Thinking of you, as ever, with love and blessings,

J.M.

* * *

 _Clearly it never rains but it pours. I'd apologise, except that I'm enjoying having narrative momentum. To all of you reading and/or reviewing and generally sticking with me, many thanks._


	33. Chapter 33

_In which there is talk of murder mysteries, monopoly, and reminiscences, because I am sometimes capable of writing a chapter wherein no one dies. I reckon we've earned the respite. Thanks go as ever to anyone reading and/or reviewing, especially guests, as I can't correspond regularly with you._

* * *

Ingleside,  
Glen St. Mary,  
August, 1936

Jo,

We had a letter from Miri today dated from Perpgian, France, where she has become embroiled in their work with the Spanish refugees. It is a difficult image to reconcile with the Miri of the Kithcen Table, last seen at Struan, Ontario, but I suppose life experience is like that. John still cannot quite wrap his head around Una and her ACS work, and she has been set up in Singapore for years now, so I suppose I can be forgive.

It paints a markedly different picture to the previous letters of Essex, with their trips to London and occasional Oxford excursions. These included an outing to _Call it a Day,_ which, incredibly, would seem to still be running.

Anyway, it was obvious from this missive that she had finally got Nan's letter about Susan and was writing to pass on condolences – rather nicely at that. Not that that should surprise anyone; Miri has long been a wordsmith in her own right. Even so, it struck me, reading it over that it was the kind of carefully constructed letter one might send anyone in sympathy. But then, the little girls never really did know Susan well. (Though I did find, going over her will, that she had left her bible to Mandy. A last effort to ensconce her in Presbyterianism, one supposes.)

Reading between the lines, she is to be settled for some time in France, and weather at Crow Lake being what it is, it now seems unlikely that we will see our girl again much before summer of '37. Nan says she minds most for the little girls (a title, by the by, Mandy is beyond thrilled to have passed on to the younger Misses Meredith), whose first Christmas will be without their sister. Not that they'll remember. But she will, and Mandy is all but sick about it – and you know what emotional sponges babies are.

Though talking of the babies, Nan writes that they are making good progress, and in a fit of mutual stubbornness, have flatly refused to learn the language Mandy and Miri used to share. They have one all their own that not even Mandy can interpret. This leaves Jerry teasing her about knowing what it is like 'on the other side' and she resolutely ignores him. She also, to judge from the letters I occasionally have from her, is spending ever more time at the Challow farm. One presumes this is to make up some of the gap Miri being away must necessarily have occasioned.

For ourselves, we are still navigating a Susanless world. It still seems incredible to me. The new stone has finally been installed in the churchyard and when I went to inspect it I found the Cricket Club in session at its feet. When I told Anne, we couldn't decide if Susan would be horrified or delighted. Cornelia affected horror, but really I think she was glad, because she went on to say something about how some things never changed, and didn't it just put her in mind of the Merediths chattering like larks on the tombstone of Hezekiah Pollock.

I have since plumped for the side of gladness. Less the repetition of what was, more something Miss Abby said as I kissed her goodnight. I was asking about the day, and she volunteered that they had gone down to the stone, because 'Old Susan Baker was always trying to join in with us, and never got to. And we thought it might be nice for her to still hear us talking.' Then she asked if I reckoned Susan could hear them, all the way up in Heaven. My Resurrection theology is much less than yours, so of course I said that she could. Now I'm trying to picture Susan attempting involvement in a Cricket Club meeting and falling utterly short. I'll have to get the little ones to part with details.

Love ever,

Gil

* * *

Ingleside,  
Glen St Mary,  
September, 1936

Jo,

We did _try_ to send Miss Abby to school. She stuck it about three weeks with Joanie as a doting companion, before we finally called it a bad job. The first day was terrible; tears, wailing, she clutched Anne's knees at the schoolyard and actually kicked and clung and refused to be severed. Anne had had the foresight not to send her home for lunch, which was one less hurdle. Then, as I say, Joanie took to walking with her too and from school, the Cricket Club in operation, as it were. It has since expanded to include the Morris children, which additions made me think that we might yet get Abby to enjoy school. That was before Alastair and Di were called in to talk with Mr. E. Crawford, Principal and the Infants' class instructor. Apparently, Miss Abby is so tearful and distracted that the teacher can make no headway with her at all. If she isn't staring longingly out the window, she's looking worriedly out the classroom door in expectation of some herald of dire news. Or else she's quietly weeping into her desk and little Bobbi Andrews, who sits next to her, trying to comfort her.

I asked her about it the other night over cups of cocoa, and she crinkled those green-grey eyes at me and said as if it were perfectly ordinary, 'Everybody keeps on going _away_ when I'm not there, Grandad.'

Faced with such logic, I couldn't for the life of me think of an argument that would hold water, so that was the end of _that._ She's back to taking her lessons with Hector at Anne's knee, and positively thriving. We probably could have put her in the Junior girls' class, if we'd been thinking about it, but I doubt that would have made much difference. Dulce keeps an observational eye on all of them and without fail reminds them of such essentials as morning tea, dinner, and elevenses. It has lately come to Dulce's attention that we owe her at least six years worth of dinners and teas, and she's keen to see we make up on it. (We have so far failed and stick resolutely to Fox Biscuits.)

The Cricket Club continues to meet without fail in assorted kitchens across the Glen, and are, Dulce's eyes assure me, much more congenial about honouring the great Canine Tea Debt. This is all to the good. If they are less in Rainbow Valley at this age than our children were, I think it is only because they cannot easily get Hector there without an adult, and adults are, as discussed, strictly forbidden from Cricket Club Attendance. I'd try and get a motion through to change this, but no one would second it, which is as it should be.

Love ever,

Gil

* * *

New Manse,  
Glen St Mary,  
September, 1936

Jo,

A postcard came through from Miri today, short but just long enough to suggest that the excitement of helping a cause is beginning to wear thin on her, though I think Miss Janie is still feeling the thrill of it. They are seeing quite a lot of rain at the moment, the fine, invisible kind one never notices until entry into a house reveals one to be soaked through. She says she misses the days of Lyons' Corner House and the miles of museums. I had to smile at that; I fear I too would be more likely to be found admiring the Victoria and Albert's ecclesiastical silver (and Miri says there was quite yards of it) than in the greyly wet shelters of Perpigan being misted with rain. A failing on my part, certainly, especially knowing full well where I would find you and Una both.

As it is, I have just left Ingleside engaged in Mathematics by Board Game. Anne's idea by way of Ken Ford, whose family brought along what I can only describe as a game of properties as a tribute at their last visit. It's American, and quite popular among the children. Anyway, they picked it up while at Lake Devine, and here it now is. I'm afraid I don't follow the rules at all, and direct you to Gilbert for more particulars.

In any event, I am far more interested in your plans for the Manse. Faith tells me there are ideas afoot for the conversion of some part of it, though between trying to save a casserole and unravel a Latin exercise for Sophy, she was not terribly clear about it. I came away with the impression that deponent verbs were somehow implicated, and prone to boiling over – though that last might have been the casserole. Do write and revise my opinion, won't you? It almost certainly needs it. And if you have any light to shed on the readings slotted for Harvest Festival, do enlighten me. The decision to revise Common Worship has left me quite at sea as to the internal logic.

Love and blessings,

J.M.

* * *

Martyrs' Manse,  
Kingsport,  
October, 1936

John,

You will be unsurprised to hear that you are ahead of me in your sermonizing. Equally, that deponent verbs have little to do with the present project. They're the ones that look passive, aren't they? Nothing about this effort is even pretending passivity. What with the turn in the season, and the smell of snow looming, I have marshalled such troops as I could to undertake the conversion of the parlour and dining room into a meeting hall. My haphazard congregants are neither decreasing in number, nor beginning to talk of a return to Hope Park and Martyrs', and that being the case, we must do something. We cannot continue as we are, down at the harbour. Even before the cold began setting in the numbers were getting unwieldy. Mrs Alan Caxley had offered us her front parlour, but at this stage, I don't think that will avail us much, even if we stand on each other's toes and balance the children on our shoulders. Hence, the downstairs conversion of the manse.

I had thought to include the kitchen in this reorganization, but Faith assures me that I will miss it, and Ellie that I have actually to eat things. I find lately that I keep forgetting. The stove, you know, has to be wrestled with before condescending to start, and I have lately learned that I never thought to ask Phil for the trick of it. The hob is more agreeable as an entity, but really, there is only so much one can do on a hob before variations wear thin.

I am thinking of Phil rather a lot lately; Naomi took a weekend, as you no doubt heard, to come up and help Ellie box up Phil's things. She had, in true Gordon fashion, made it all very clear on paper how the things that mattered were to be divided up. But that still left a quantity of clothes, hats, hatpins and other impedimenta to be gone over. The clothes and shoes – the best of them, anyway – have been set aside for this winter's Advent appeal, which would, I think, have met with approval. That only left the odd piece of jewelry – a locket that has ever gone mother to daughter, her engagement ring, and other oddments that hardly warrant detailing – and the box that had housed them. There was a singer sewing machine that had long been Phil's nemesis and she would be relieved to know is now in the capable hands of Ellie, who will almost certainly love it more than Phil ever did. As none of us could decide what to do with the hatpins, we divided them between the girls. Ruthie and Naomi, I mean. Ellie seemed to feel Phil would have wanted that. I have kept just one, much-abused one that bore the brunt of her decision-making in Redmond days. No idea what I'll do with it – it is currently sitting idle on the night table, which is hardly allowing of its purpose.

In the midst of all of this, we also uncovered her university trunk, still full of her old essays and mathematical proofs. I have lost these last few days to reading them, though I can't make top, tail or middle of most of it. I should probably hoard them for the fire; Shirley is prophesying a long winter. He's often right about these things, but then, they _sound_ so like her, John. Or at any rate, they sound like the Phil I used to listen debate and postulate among her peers. She was different with them, you know. More obviously clever – is that what I mean? It doesn't sound quite right. Perhaps not afraid of being intelligent – but that's not it, either. I never knew Phil to be afraid of anything. It was more…like electricity. What I mean is, set her between Gil, Anne and all the university crowd and she shone bright as any star, was fierce with it. For all her indecision, she never doubted _that._ But then – and I remember seeing this in her and falling in love with it deeply – she could turn on a dime and redirect that same energy towards the price of eggs, how to filet a fish and what to do with a girning baby as we talked with the Martyrs' congregation of a Sunday morning. Anyone could do that, I suppose, but it was the sincerity of it, John. As if the price of eggs mattered every bit as much as square roots or the force of gravity. Because, of course, to Martyrs, it _did_ matter, and to that end it mattered to Phil too.

I'm afraid I've quite lost what I set out to say. That I miss her, I suppose. That I have lost the most agreeable, but also painful, interval to reading over her handwriting – a thing her mother always lamented for its unruliness, you know – and remembering the girl I courted. You were talking about time travel not long ago, and I imagine this is the closest I'm likely to get to it. Yellowy paper with spidery handwriting arguing the merits of 'The Franklin's Tale' (she does not appear to have found many, having little time for Dorigen) and the best way to measure a circle.

Though, do you know, for all that, I don't know that I would go back. Not to say it wasn't lovely – there are times I look back and think it must have been idyllic – but then I would not have this life lived, the experiences that wove us ever closer, the children and their children. Though, then too, I would not have this rickety manse with its doors and windows, and the oven one must kick to corral into operation. Or if I did, it would not be only me.

A dangerous thing, memory. We must have argued like anyone, being only human, after all. There may even have been nights when old injunction notwithstanding, the sun set on that anger. But I've blotted it all out. The trouble is, it's all slippery, like water. I find I keep losing pieces – did you, with Cecilia? I cannot now quite see her smile, only a version of it that does not quite bear up to the real thing. Is somehow duller. The sound of her laugh, too, is waxing ever thinner. Sometimes I will hear a clock, or a peel of church bells and mistake them for it, and sometimes too, it is only the wind. I find I have remembered the shape of her hands, but not the feel of them. I was walking with Emma the other day, and when I looked over her arms were crossed across her chest, just as Phil used to do – as she did at Prospect Point where we first met. But I'd forgotten how particular to her it was. And then I looked at little Emma and wanted to weep for having forgotten and remembering again, but that wasn't fair on her.

Strange to say, I think she understood, because she uncrossed her arms, got up on her toes and kissed my ear, which was as close as she could get to me without me bending over. 'It won't be the same ever again, will it?' she said as she leaned against my side. Then she tucked her little hand into mine, and crooked my arm so that she was resting on it, and that was Phil to the letter too. Not the same, but then, not altogether lost, either.

I'm afraid after all that I haven't advanced you at all on Matthew 15. Forgive me; but you were ever the cleverer of us confronted with such things anyway. And forgive the length. With no one to talk over the day with, you are getting the brunt of it this afternoon.

May you ever be well, do good work, and keep in touch.

Jo

* * *

Ingleside,  
Glen St. Mary,  
October, 1936

Jo,

My apologies; I cannot enlighten you as to the board game in question at all. All I know about it is that it is called _Monopoly_ , was invented by a Yankee, and takes many hundred years to play. To which end, it is best done of a rainy afternoon, and then only when confident in the knowledge that twenty other rainy days are ensuing. Possibly only when stranded on an ark by divine dictate with animals two of each kind in tow. Anne likes it for the children as they are much keener on sums when trying to buy and place the houses. Though, as there is usually some squabbling as to who gets to play the rocking horse token, I have been enlisted to find a solution. Consequently, between letters, and patients who really should not be visiting, I am attempting to carve a Dulce-style dog. It is not going well – incredible, I know. My father was the one with the gift for carving, and Shirley the one to inherit it from him. What are the chances I can get him away from renovations to your parlour and bring him in to the cause? Though, Iain would probably persuade him to do up a cat instead, and that wouldn't do at all. That one you coaxed into the Manse is still about, by the way. It now sleeps on Rosemary's sewing basket, usually when she needs to get in to it, and washes it's paws very delicately, while turning up her nose at Miss Abby's attentions. I make her a terrible judge of taste – the cat, obviously, not Miss Abby.

An idea to run past you, while I've got you; what do you think _The Echo_ would say to my taking out a column formally announcing my retirement? After an afternoon spent reassuring Giblertina Drew that young Bertie was not going to die, Dr. Meredith was absolutely right about the non-fatality of the common cold, it's obvious I'm having about as much luck retiring as I am with the carved dog token. Which is to say, not much at all. Do let me know.

Love ever,

Gil

P.S. Anne has caught me before the post and wants your opinion on _Cards on the Table_. The bridge hand does not convince her, or something. I have yet to read it (her fault) so am a highly unsuitable conversationalist.

P.P.S. Anne again, objecting to that last sentence and further asking for your opinion on something she calls _Burnt Norton_ (sp?).* All I know about it is that it comes from the same place as that weird, theological poem you sent John years back, and neither he nor she can decipher this one. Do offer an opinion and save Rosemary and I having to read it, won't you? And , for goodness' sake, warn us if we're in for another month of deeply philosophical sermons!

* * *

Martyrs' Manse,  
Kingsport,  
November, 1936

Gil,

Tell Anne and John that I really did try with the Eliot, but could not get on at all. It kept putting me to sleep, and then there were several babies to christen, and little Iris Connover to bring into the church, and prayers to say over a dying Mrs Motraine, so I never got to the end. I fear all I know about it is that it is very dense, and probably very intelligent, and the odds favour Phil having found it equal parts interesting and vexing were she here. She would likely have thrown it at least once across the room; I've passed my copy on to Larkrise, where someone is bound to do better than I did. Probably Christopher, who has just finished with _The Nine Tailors_ , and being presently an aspiring campanologist, takes exception to several of the bell-ringing sequences detailed. Having only ever mended the bells, myself, I take his word for it. For what it's worth, Neil Carter reckons him as quite a good ringer, so there may be something in it after all. Campanology aside, he loved the book. Phil, I recall, found it too slow to start, but Christopher declares it very atmospheric, as do Helen and Evie. I always meant to read it, but somehow never did, between losing Martyrs', starting at the hospital, stopping at the hospital, holding the fort at the Glen and all the rest. Thinking on it, Miri must surely have seen the surrounding countryside by now, and having been lately at home with the author as it were, has surely read it. What is her take?

I have, however, done much better with _Cards on the Table._ I hope you pointed out to Anne she was querying a Presbyterian Minister on a game of Bridge. I understood about as much of those scenes as you do the children's Gaelic. Fox Corner are experts, however, and no one there was grievously offended by the hands in play. Nor were the Carlisles, when I happened upon them at Larkrise. Faith just blinked at me and said I'd do far better asking the children, as she was always half a step behind when it came to bidding and tricks etc&. She joins me in asking exactly what _was_ Anne's objection? We're all intrigued.

We make good progress on the Manse, by the by. Sam assures me this is because it's much easier to knock things down than set them up, and all that was really called for was the removal of an internal wall to throw dining and sitting room together. Presently we are painting over the join between the two in order to make them one room, and refinishing the floor. I don't feel it necessary, but Shirley says it is, for safety or something. As he, like me, is the sort to pray by doing, I bow to him in this particular. Neither of us wants to be left too much to memory with Christmas looming, I suspect, and refinishing the floors keeps us occupied. After which, we plan to establish a second fireplace along the back of the dining room as was, which will involve the installation of a second chimney. If we can that done, we should be left only the small matter of what to do with the old furniture. Ruthie has no need of it, Sam no room for it, and while Naomi has claimed a rather battered chair that used to be her place of study, I don't believe she has much use for the rest. Nor do yours – or not the ones I've asked. What about Nan? Could she do with a dining room set? Or perhaps Kitty? Faith says that Cabbage town flat of hers is small; if she's short anything, she need only say. Jims likewise, though I can only imagine Ken Ford is seeing him well cared for. Ask around, anyway. If they all demur, I will see about dividing the lot among the parish, if that is what we are.

Absolutely take out that column. Naomi would have a field day writing it, or the work placement students would. Faith is threatening to do it for you, otherwise, and you know how that will turn out, I'm sure.

Be well, do good work, and keep in touch.

Jo

P.S. Find enclosed an old brooch of Phil's in the shape of a dog. It was to commemorate some beloved Gordon animal, and will do much better entertaining the Cricket Club at _Monopoly_ than as something for me to wax reminiscent over.

* * *

Ingleside,  
Glen St Mary,  
November, 1936

Jo,

I was going to thank you for the brooch, but it has now quite displaced the rocking horse, apparently, so we are back to square one, and Anne is at her wits' end. As is Di. Naomi is much more placid about the conundrum, mostly, I think, because she can't bring herself to get any more invested in the game than I can. She looked up over a proof she was revising at our kitchen table the other day, and catching my eye as I ducked in and away from a battle royal, said, 'How can they _possibly?_ ' Then she went out and sacrificed an old sort to the cause.** Apparently the new system at the paper has rendered it outmoded, or something. That brokered a temporary peace and is well on the way to establishing ours as the most eclectic _Monopoly_ set in the country. The type sort! The brooch! Rare, and valuable tokens, apparently of immeasurable worth.

I made the mistake of saying this – about the new system at _The Echo,_ I mean – in passing to Kitty, over the 'phone, when she rang up the other evening, an she got terribly excited. So much so that she quite forgot she'd meant to call Jem, being, as it turned out, under the mistaken impression he and family had taken a weekend with us. In fairness, I think they _meant_ to, until this Cowley-Claxton murder got so big. Anyway, by the time she'd rung off, I was several degrees wiser about the fact that there is some merger in progress between _The Globe_ and _The Mail and Empire._ Kitty's torn between excitement and terror that she'll be displaced. I don't happen to find it terribly likely; reporters might be a dime a dozen, but ones up to Kitty's standard are emphatically _not_ , and that you may tie to.

In less dramatic news, we're all a bit confused as to how Christopher is only on _The Nine Tailors_. Don't tell me someone at Larkrise is _still_ jealously guarding the copy of _Gaudy Night_ we passed on? I know Anne was very anxious to canvass opinions on it; she has not stopped waxing poetic on what she calls 'The Boating Scene' since reading it.

On which note, Miri has written to assure us that the scene in question is not an inaccurate portrayal. Even in summer there were quite a few punters with gramophones, apparently. Though she cannot help you as to the atmosphere of the other; she was in Essex, not the Fens. Both have marshes, apparently, and one may have informed the other (apparently the local church was the source of the one written up) but beyond that she declines to comment. Further news puts herself and Miss Janie en route to a Christmas in Germany with friends of Miss Janie via the Lubowitzes of Crow Lake. Frankly, I'd rather she go back to Essex, which is less exotic, but also a known quantity, and home to Nan's friends. Needless to say that I have passed this information along, but have every confidence it will only further solidify the case for Germany, the Blythe-Meredith stubbornness existing twice over in Miri. After that we'll see where they go. The original plan had been to have them home in time for the little girls' birthday, but obviously that won't be happening now. Mandy makes up the difference, when not turning herself into a human snowman, sketching her winter birds. A recent letter tells me she was rewarded with a pair of deer the other morning, and includes watercolours in evidence. She's really got remarkably good, Jo, my own bias aside. So much so that Anne tried to suggest it as something to pursue after school was over, but Mandy demurred. She'll think about that, she says, once Miri is back. This is, after all, not unreasonable. She's still several years short of university as it is. Jims might have been thinking and strategizing about it back at almost-sixteen, but then, Jims grew up atypically quickly. I sometimes worry he could not leave Toronto quickly enough – a thing I never used to like to say where Susan could hear me. He still says, you know, that his happiest memories belong to Ingleside. I'd be flattered except…well, it doesn't make for very comfortable thoughts about Maple St., does it? All those years Ken and Rilla were at odds and Jims playing the adult to the little boys. Anyway, I'm probably being uncharitable; he's devoted to the boys and Sissy, even if he is mired in a second degree at Montreal. Something to do with aeroplanes, I think. You'd much better ask Shirley, he was bending Jims's ear about it over the summer and doing leaps and bounds better than anyone else about keeping up with him.

Be sure and send a faithful report of the Accidental Church. I'll have you know Shirley is absolutely right about the floors, and Alastair agrees. If anyone ought to know about it, he should.

Love ever,

Gil

* * *

* _Gil is here referring to John's earlier perusal of_ Ash Wednesday _by T.S. Eliot. It feels ages ago._ Burnt Norton _, meanwhile, went on to become the beginning of his_ Four Quartets _and I wish John joy of making sense of them, because I don't think anyone has done it yet._

 _** Lest this sentence felt as odd to read as it did to write, the sort, or type sort, is the letter stamp used in typesetting._


	34. Chapter 34

_Hello! Notwithstanding a spectacular glitch by the computer (all and any thoughts on Word's failure to copy-paste into a browser appreciated!) I'm back. Happy New Year, Epiphany, and any other holiday in there I've overlooked. Hopefully you haven't quite lost the plot of this story. As ever, thanks to all of you reading and/or reviewing. I love hearing from you. And I don't think there are any more holidays approaching to eat my time, so we should be back to normal from here on out._

* * *

Martyrs' Manse,  
Kingsport,  
December, 1936

Gil,

You'll have heard the news, I suppose? Can you believe it? I was in the middle of listening to the World Service when the telephone rang; Naomi with the headline announcement of the abdication. To say I've never been much invested in the goings-on of our monarchy beyond the running of the country, I find I feel peculiarly sympathetic to this one. For nearly a year now I've been trying to helm my own little ship without Phil, and that's disconcerting enough; I find I still forget I can't go and petition her for advice. I shudder to think what it's like trying to manoeuvre a whole country into cooperation on one's own.

Even as I write, it strikes me this is exactly the sort of subject Cornelia and Susan would do battle on. I would ask if Anne has risen to the occasion, but then, Anne always has an opinion, even if she isn't guaranteed to be at odds with Cornelia. Do write up your account of it, won't you? I find the closer I get to Christmas, the more I welcome diversions from all sides. It still hasn't sunk in quite that Phil won't see this one. Won't dress the tree or imperfectly mash the potatoes. Ellie, you know, took over the goose at the first opportunity and very glad Phil was about that, too!

Anyway, there's to be an early celebration here at the manse as was, before we make the trip out to Bolingbrook to do the occasion justice. Or try to. As I say, we're all still askew with the universe. I suppose we'd all thought we'd navigated every shade of grief and have just now stumbled upon a new one. Strange isn't it, what a resilient current memory can be?

Forgive my going; there's holly and ivy still to hang before the multitudes arrive later this evening. I owe them the trimmings of festivity at the very least. But don't take that to mean I've forgotten that report of yours; I really am interested in local opinion at your end.

Be well, do good work, and keep in touch. Not forgetting a happy Christmas when occasion warrants it.

Jo

P.S. Christopher assures me it's not for want of trying, re _Gaudy Night_. Apparently Helen has taken it hostage and is on the third rereading, or something.

* * *

Ingleside,  
Glen St. Mary,  
December, 1936

Jo,

As you will be entirely unsurprised to learn, Anne was quite on your side of the thing, as was John. Neither of them think it at all fair to force that kind of impossible choice on anyone. I'm not sure I do either, but as I never liked That Woman, I am – perhaps unthinkingly – glad that she will not now be anything to do with us or our government. Alice took my side, unable to see how and why work and private life should reflect on each other. I'd be surprised, but for her own being necessarily intertwined by virtue of the Glen's everlasting scrutiny. We were otherwise augmented by the unlikely alliance of Rosemary and Ellen; none of us recalls the last time they agreed on politics. But perhaps the most unlooked for ally, as Di, Naomi and Anne amassed against us, was Cornelia. I can't decide if Cornelia simply couldn't bring herself to agree with Methodists (Fred had taken the others' side likewise), objected to Edward VII by virtue of his being a man, or simply wanted an argument, and thought Anne a worthy adversary in absence of Susan. It's probably some combination of all of the above.

The children came armed to the teeth with opinions, and no two of them the same. Kitty was positively vibrating over the excitement the news had caused when it came hurtling through the door of _The Globe and Mail'_ s King St. office _._ You will notice from this the success of the November merger, and no doubt have already rightly inferred that they kept Kitty on in the process. The way she tells it, once the abdication news was in, there was a mad few hours wherein everyone rushed about writing and rewriting copy, in an effort to keep the front page current. Sections were ferried from writers to section editors to subeditors by overworked novice reporters at quite impossible speed. She got to the end of this glowing report and Jem said laconically from the depths of our sofa, 'Told you you'd be brilliant.' Kitty threw a chestnut at him but did not otherwise elaborate. She missed her mark, and Dulce hastened to erase the evidence from the parlour floor. Teddy just beamed, before launching into the case as he saw it.

It was probably about then that I left them wrangling politics and the chess board in favour of hunting down Nan's Christmas letter to read to the masses. There's no getting anywhere from Crow Lake this time of year, as John has probably told you. Nan affirms this in a missive detailing walls of snow feet tall, and temperatures more arctic than human. Here, incidentally, Sissy interjected to ask of Jims, Bruce or anyone with an answer, how a province like Ontario could go from record highs of 42 in the summer to practically the opposite in cold weather. Several people started speaking at once, Alice Caldicote inclusive, but I do not think, if I understood the overlapping sentences correctly, that anyone actually understood the reason here. I give them full marks for effort, though.

They were saved further rumination by Di's announcement that the goose was done, and we all went through to dinner, except Teddy and Kitty, who were still logicking out the British monarchy at the expense their chess. Rosemary went to remind them and Faith said, 'I really wouldn't, if I were you,' so we left them to it and stuck a couple of covered dishes on the hob for when they remembered them.

Di had outdone herself with the meal. I suppose she was trying to minimise the discrepancies that Susan's loss created. The goose was a masterpiece of a goose, golden and crisp, and there must have been a garden's worth of glazed, honeyed, spiced and otherwise seasoned vegetables. There was gingerbread with whipped cream because Jem was partial to it, a plum pudding that Hector and Abby had wished over, an Orange Shape, cream puffs, and the closest Di could get to the Susan-brand of fudge. She reckons this as not much, though Shirley argued the point gamely. There was a rhubarb crumble with the last of this season's stock, a generous portion of gravy, and around all of it, islands of silver so polished it hurt to look at. Neither Alastair nor I could work out when all of this got done, having spent much of the season overrun with work. He on a hotel that is replacing the Old Moore House as was, me in failing to retire. (I'm drafting that newspaper announcement as we speak, with Kitty's assistance.) I tried asking Anne, but she insists that she herself did very little, and Rosemary said the same.

This was before she and Anthony took to playing some four-hand arrangement of carols at the piano. Before too, we got coaxed in to singing along.

Anthony started it, swivelling round on the piano bench to face us, and Miss Abby was first to join in. Dulce was second, so of course Hector followed after that. So did Jims, because I really think he will do anything for those boys, and that meant Sissy too, because what Jims does, she does. (This includes the dissection of our zenith radio, which they assure me is now ancient. Between them it is now in better working order than it ever was – par for the course according to Persis – but first it was also in more pieces than I knew existed.) Somewhere along the way Rosemary scooped up a descant and carried Alice and Mara along with her. They were well into _Hark, the Herald_ by then, so Bruce improvised a tenor line, and Di got hold of a hymnal for her and Leslie in the interests of rounding out the harmony. It would have been around then that Kitty and Teddy declared chess and politics a lost cause and joined in, bringing the rest of Larkrise with them. I suppose I must have followed suit, but if so, it was very late in the day. The pleasantest thing in the world was listening to all of them coming together like that. It reminded me of the A.V.I.S. Christmas gatherings, and of Christmases in my mother's house, the warmth and conviviality of it.

I guess I looked some of it too, because Shirley said as he elbowed his way onto the settle next to me, Isobel in his arms, 'Hard to put a price on it, isn't it?' and nodded at the tangled sprawl of the family.

He's not wrong. Happy Christmas, Jo. Find appended to this letter a collection of well-wishes and inquiries from our Kingsport Contingent. Answer them when you're able, but do answer, or they will probably hound me to death over the morning post. And odds are on that I let them.

Love ever,

Gil

* * *

New Manse,  
Glen St. Mary,  
January 1937

Jo,

I believe we have cracked the vexed question of Sophy's disquiet with her election to the role of Angel in the school play. Rather, Rosemary unravelled it all over cinnamon rolls and cambric tea. It turns out the grandchildren have got something of a bible study going. Well, strictly speaking it isn't that, more a book club that pours over Revelations, or something. Anyway, Iain got them interested by telling them it featured dragons. So for the past six weeks or however long they'd been working their way through Revelations and quite naturally, Sophy heard 'Angel' and got it into her head she'd be the fiery-eyed, lightning-endowed kind that end the world. She was – and I quote _– grievously unhappy_ on discovering that instead she was supposed to be white winged, mild-mannered and generally seraphic.

(Here Rosemary has come in with tea and wishes to amend the above. It is not Iain's fault at all but mine for gifting him that New Testament back in the summer. I'm to understand without it we would not be here.)

Naturally, Rosemary kept a very straight face throughout the conference, but afterwards we had a good laugh over it. Norman and Ellen happened to be over for the retelling, and you will be unsurprised to hear Norman was entirely on poor Sophy's side. Said he never did understand the point of non-apocalyptic angels, and that it wasn't for nothing they had to go about saying 'Be not afraid,' even the ones that were reduced to cosmic messengers. I think his exact words were 'Too Casper Milquetoast,' which phraseology naturally generated still more laughter.

In a similar vein, the Christmas parcel brought word that Iris had somehow developed a notion that Una's shortbread was made specially for her. To that effect she stuck a note to the tray informing anyone that this was 'My Short Bred' lest there be any confusion. She got very protective of it and it was all Una could do to get any into the parcel for us. In the end she had to assuage her with promises of what Bruce used to call 'Brown Stuff.' I'd detail it for you, but I never was clear on what it was. Even Rosemary couldn't parse the ingredients; I have just come from asking her. Suffice to say it's very chewy, very sticky, and very popular with Iris. More disconcert, it goes on to say that China is beginning to get uneasy about another invasion. I do hope that's wrong. No one is saying it will come to nothing, which is disturbing to all of us. This time I think I _will_ write, if it comes to anything, I mean. What with Miri abroad and the world all discombobulated, I'm beginning to have my fill about worrying for our people.

Not, by the by, that Miri is so very badly off. Her own Christmas letter – and wasn't it odd to get that, separate to Nan's usual card – puts her somewhere in the south of Germany and very happy about it. So much so that there's some talk of her parting company from Miss Janie if she goes on to Europe. One of the host family has offered to show Miri Berlin, and she's keen to go. I'd tell you who, only I get quite confused unravelling who is what in that family. Anne and Rosemary assure me it is all very straightforward, but all I have managed so far is that one of the boys is something political and the other is engaged to a local girl down the road and planning to take over the family farm. I presume it's the political one that is proposing a tour of Berlin, but that's as far as I have got. For names and details, I direct you to Gilbert.

Love and blessings,

J.M.

P.S. What do you make of the new radio station? Gil says it is not at all as good as the BBC World Service and remains unconvinced that Jims' reinvention of the radio hasn't somehow affected broadcast quality. I can't say I much notice the difference.

P.P.S. I have half an idea you and Phil had a name for that visiting cat when you were here. As she clearly isn't going anywhere, I don't suppose you'd pass it along? Rosemary says we really must start calling her something besides Cat, Mog, and Moggie, and she's probably right.

* * *

Martyrs' Manse,  
Kingsport,  
January, 1937

John,

We called her Glorianna. Rather, Phil did. Noting her socks, which were most striking, I called her Mittens. Phil didn't reckon that as grand enough though, which is how the feline in question arrived at the absurdity of a name that was High Holy Empress and Queen of Sheba, Glorianna Mittens. Glorianna for every day, occasionally Gloria to people who fed her. Make of that what you will. It certainly leaves you and Rosemary with plenty of choice in the matter.

All of this, by the by, brought to you by way of a perusal of our 1935 correspondence with the children. Sam and Ellie in particular, those letters being immediately available. These have, in addition to polishing my memory of the many-titled Glorianna Mittens, have mostly served to remind me that no one, not even Anne, could wear whimsy quite the way Phil could. The sections detailing our feline acquisition are all jumbled together with advisory paragraphs on the best way to calculate this year's taxes and the most efficient way to assess the treasury at Hope Park. (You'll recall this was before the formation of the Accidental Church.) There are postscripts to the grandchildren that tell stories of sentient maths equations that she assures them will help them learn their numbers and that the post-postscripts claim were inspired by Anne. Nell and I looked the lot over together, and her chief takeaway was that her home was less at least one cat. Three ideally, she tells me, but one to start with. Emma, arriving midway through this excavation of Sam's study, was more interested in the sentient equations. She was so delighted with them that I headed back to Martyrs' fully intending to tell Phil that her scheming had worked and one of Sam's girls had got her brain for numbers after all. And then I stepped into the hall, saw it was monastically uncluttered by hats, shawls, shoes and coats and remembered with a jolt that there was no Phil to tell, and any mathematicians in our collection would have hereafter to be clever enough to conquer their sums without her.

I suppose some day it will stick. It mostly does, except in those moments where she peeks through the fabric of our grandchildren. Anyway, I knew that after a visitation like that she'd have gone off directly and bought Nell a whole litter of kittens, and never mind Ellie's sentiments on the subject. I didn't _quite_ have the nerve for that, so settled for calling in on Grace Carmichael and asking her to set aside the nicest of the Hennessy Farm's kittens for Nell just as soon as it's old enough to leave. Grace has been saying for weeks that I might have my pick of one for company, and I've been declining, because what would I do with a cat? But Nell was so keen on it – well, I couldn't deny her. I did warn Sam though, so that he could talk Ellie round on the subject. And I've promised to apologise profusely if all that fails.

Now, what is all this talk about a horse at Ingleside? I've had so many confused accounts that I can't sort fact from fiction. Your grandchildren are wild about it and the adults exasperated.

Be well, do good work, and keep in touch.

Jo

P.S. Tell Gil I can find no fault with the Canadian Broadcast Corporation or it's content, and _my_ radio was not dissected by Jims. Whatever errors Gil is finding in it, they do not originate with him.

* * *

Ingleside,  
Glen St Mary,  
February, 1937

Jo,

The horses were my idea. I had a sort of thought they might be good for Miss Abby. Get her out of the house, and all that. I think I _had_ told you that we finally capitulated and moved her into Susan's old room? We did. It was the most sensible thing to do, what with her sleeping more in Hector's room than her own. Never mind the number of times the Ingleside adults have awoken to the sound of her footsteps on the stairs and mistaken her for a diminutive burglar. In the end there really was nothing for it but to move her, bed, dresser, doll collection and all into Susan's cubbyhole of a room. It leaves the upstairs terrifically empty, but since it has more than halved our rash of recurrent nightmares, it was obviously the right thing to do. Dulce, naturally, is beside herself, because now she can't decide who to follow off to bed. Not that it matters. As I say, Abby ends up curled around Hector more nights than she doesn't. At least this way stairs are eliminated from the equation.

Even so, I was still less than satisfied with the household arrangements. Anne and Alastair are still campaigning for the cause of pavement and Abby won't go further than the Maple Grove on her own. And when I think about all the glorious rambles I had, or that I got to hear about from my children on their disparate adventures, well that didn't seem right. I mean, children are supposed to be _children_ , aren't they, Jo? And here's Miss Abby having volunteered herself into the role of Hector's unofficial caregiver when the rest of us aren't around. Sometimes even when we are. Naturally I don't want to discourage it, but I _do_ want her to have a chance at all the things my own brood loved. Hence the horses.

Rilla was deeply dubious when I mentioned the idea to her. But then, Rilla would be. Even now I think she is residually traumatised by Abner Crawford's old grey horse and how it landed her an encounter with Meg Conover. Jims too, of course. But you must remember that first there was Meg Conover and that at the time Rilla was not much for children. But the others seemed to agree it was an excellent idea, so I went searching about for a pair of horses suitable to purpose.

They were to be a Christmas gift to Miss Abby, you know; one for her, and one for me, at least until she got up the nerve to go out alone. And if not, I guess I thought there would always be Alastair or Joanie, or any number of Betty's boys to keep her company. The main thing was to get her out from under our household thumb a bit. Well, I came away triumphant from the Taylor farm, where Hal Taylor was in the process of retiring a pair of work horses. Well, more or less. The big-boned creature called Tam (and more on that later) is a horse. His diminutive partner is really a mild-mannered pony with a preference for green grass, warm weather and a tolerance for children. I know this because I have seen this latest generation feed her apples leaning across the fence.

Naturally, I couldn't wrap them up, but I did what I could. I rekitted our old stable with what I could, arranged with Hal to drop the horses off at a suitable time, and then set about making up a treasure hunt for the children. Which is to say, I wrapped up a perfectly good box of Fox Biscuits and stuck a note to the front sending Miss Abby to our pantry. Then, of course, I had to keep a careful hold of the gift in question, because I knew the minute I put it under the tree, Dulce would eat it, paper, box, biscuits and all. Well, she, Hector and the others lost all of Christmas morning to running around the house hunting clues as to what I'd given her. Oh, it was great fun. There was squealing and shouting and war-whoops quite on the scale of the old days. It was all gloriously topped by the appearance of Hal Taylor on the road, leading the horses apparently to our veranda. He told me later he'd meant to dress them up a bit for the occasion, but then thought better of it; I gather bows and ribbons can do in a pinch when there's a paucity of green grass to eat.

I don't know who was more delighted, Jo; Alastair, his children or their cousins. They took it in turns to brush them down and ply them with treats and by degrees the house returned to something closer to its usual hubbub. And then the others left, and we were back to our usual Ingleside connection, and that was when the matter of names arose. Hal had called them Polly and Pat, which we were agreed made for good but uninteresting names. Hector, perhaps thinking of Susan was full of political references, none of which quite landed. Miss Abby was certain, for instance, that there could never be a horse called MacKenzie. I tend to see her point. Anne, meanwhile, was full of all manner of elaborate permutations. Elaine, Demeter and Persephone were all put forward for the pony, who for reasons that elude me, was clearly judged to be a Tennysonian pony. I didn't quite dare ask why. Then there was Julian and Madalo, Albion, Urizen and all kinds of high Romantic things for her partner. Dorothy and William were the closest to ordinary, and Miss Abby's eyebrows, which were at that point several inches up what is a positively Elizabethan forehead, all but receded into her fiery hair.

'They're _horses_ , Granny!' she said, shocked, and I can tell you we didn't half have a time trying not to laugh.

Anne said, 'Well, yes, darling, but don't you think they dream of being more than ordinary horses? Perhaps a Romeo and Juliet?' More protestations from Miss Abby that Anne either didn't hear or chose not to, because she went on and on, culminating in the suggestion of Lancelot and Gwenevere. Miss Abby considered this before shaking her head and saying solemnly, 'Granny, you _can't_ call horses _that._ '

'Whyever not, darling?' said Anne, much the way anyone else would enquire about the weather. By this time in the proceedings Miss Abby appeared to have recanted, at least in as far as she might hurt Anne's feelings. 'Well,' she said from where she was squirming in my arms, 'they're _doomed_ Granny. If you call them that, they might get terribly afraid of going anywhere together, in case they're arrested or killed or something.'

Anne seemed to take this point in the spirit it was intended, even as Miss Abby said to my ear in a child's idea of a whisper, 'but _really,_ Grandad, they need every day names, don't you think? The kind you can wear all the time?'

Obviously there was nothing for it, confronted with such excellent logic, but to cough quite comprehensively, until all possibility of laughter was passed. When it seemed safe I whispered back that I thought her absolutely right, and what kind of every day names was she thinking of? Anne, meanwhile, was waxing more Romantic and fanciful by the second. I strongly suspect this was for no better purpose than eliciting squeals of indignation from the young Miss atop my shoulders. She was making the case for Tristan and Iseult when Miss Abby clapped her hands and said, 'No, Granny, no! They're Tam and Meg!'

Oh, the delicious irony of it, Jo! And I still couldn't laugh, because I know for a fact that my Abby had got Anne's acuity of feeling right along with that red hair. Anne was delighted though. 'Burns!' she positively crowed, rocking back on the soles of her feet, 'What a splendid choice, darling. We'll never have to fear a Witches' Sabbath again! Meg will be the pony, of course…'She went on to parse Abby's logic at spectacular length, and then to quote the poem, all while Miss Abby hissed in my ear, 'but Grandad, Witches' Sabbaths aren't _real_.'

It was all too much. I swung her on to solid ground again and said, 'I wouldn't tell your aunt that,' and grinned. To which Her Nibs turned up her freckled nose and said with tremendous solemnity, ' _Really,_ Grandad. That's different. Auntie's Catholic. They believe all kinds of things. Susan Baker said so.'

Here, Anne fled, pink cheeked with laughter as much as cold, in the name of making tea. Needless to say, I was deeply envious, as it left me to settle the horses in with as close to a straight face as I could manage. Still, by the time Miss Abby and I had stomped our way back into the parlour, I was doing a credible interpretation of a sane, solemn human being. Anne had got out her schoolroom Burns along with the rosebud china, and as we all gathered around the coffee table, began to read aloud. Hector crept over to listen, and Dulce sat at our feet and whined because there were scones with cream on the table and no one was letting her have either. By the time Anne had ended, with a glorious flourish on _Remember Tam O'Shanter's mare!_ I had mostly recovered from my attack of gaiety and had got to thinking about how long it was since we'd had a reading like that. We used to do it all the time when the children were young. Jem can probably tell you that he learned his Kipling that way, but also Tennyson, Caroll, Arnold, Marvell, Byron and Shelley and Keats and Stevenson – prose and verse. Oh, there were great swathes of literature dealt out over the children's tea in olden days. The radio and the innovation of the puzzle, the mystery novel and the monstrosity that I make Monopoly have largely done away with the custom. So I sat there and drank it all in, not just Darjeeling and scones, or the feel of Dulce's tail like a velveteen metronome against my foot, but Anne rapt and immersed in poetry, and the little one's eyes wide as saucers for her trouble. I came away convinced that while Witches' Sabbaths might not be real, there's definitely a divinity in poetry that Anne can tease out like no one else. She read and I got the same chill down my spine I felt back in the days of _The Maiden's Vow_ and the White Sands Hotel Epoch.

None of that did a bit to stop me laughing when, alone again, Anne turned to me and said, eyes merry, 'By all accounts, the ghost of Susan Baker has been corrupting our granddaughter.' How we laughed! When I'd finally got my breath back, I said that I supposed Susan needed _someone_ in her theological corner, especially now, and obviously Iain, Isobel and Mandy were right out of the question. That set us off laughing again, and didn't it feel good!

Anyway, if all goes according to plan, Meg, Tam and I should be able to conspire between us to get Miss Abby venturing a little further afield. We may even get her back at the local school, given time. But first things first, I must actually put her on that horse. Expect a report shortly detailing the success of that. And in the meantime, be sure and let us know what entirely sensible name Nell's kitten has been landed with. I have every confidence it is sane, suitable and altogether more normal than your Glorianna Mittens up at the manse!

Love ever,

Gil


	35. Chapter 35

Martrys' Manse,  
Kingsport,  
February, 1937

Gil,

I'll have you know they've renamed that cat Gloria Mundi, which is much cleverer than anything Phil or I could have come up with. Probably grand enough for her too, thinking on it. Though you'll have to let me know what Miss Abby makes of such patent Romishness. Or does Cornelia do that for her?

Nell's kitten, by the by, has charmed even Ellie. I didn't believe it until I called round the other evening to look after the children. Sam and Ellie were gone out to catch a performance of _Drama at Inish_. Attending a further performance on their recommendation, my general impression is that it is very funny, and very clever. Why at this point I expect anything less from that reparatory of Mara's I don't know. Anyway, you and Anne would understand it far better than I do – especially all the cross-literary references. Any chance we can tempt you out to Kingsport this side of Easter?

But I was telling you about Nell and the cat. On arrival, she grabbed my hand quite excitedly and lead me to the kitchen, where the kitten – Tabby – was asleep in what I made Ellie's washing up bowl. I commented on this, thinking Ellie would object, and Nell said, 'Oh, no. That's Tabby's bowl. She fell asleep in it yesterday and she looked so peaceful that Mummy went out and bought a new one.' That's a new one for washing dishes in, you understand, not a new basin for the cat. So much for Ellie's disapproval.

After that I spent the best part of the evening attempting to assist them with the Christmas Jigsaw. This had been Sam's idea, and it was one of those great 2000 piece affairs. It was also positively dominating the dining-room table. Presently, Emma tells me, they all eat at the little kitchen card-table, which is workable but frustrating to the girls' mother, as she uses it for preparing food. I, stupidly, it turned out, asked why they didn't swap tables, assembling the puzzle on the card table in the kitchen, and was soon made to understand that that would be still worse. With that decided we set to tackling the monstrosity. The box assures me that the picture is of a fleet of sailboats traversing Lake Something-or-Other at midday. I wouldn't know. All I do know is that there is more blue in the puzzle than I previously had realised was possible. There's blue sky, blue water, the blue-shaded underside of boats. Blueish spruce-trees, and blue-striped towels on a mercifully white sandbar. Phil would have loved the challenge. No doubt Phil's mathematical brain is the reason for Sam's addiction to impossible puzzles. As it was, an hour and a half in, we were no closer to filling in the middle, much closer to murdering one another, and _convinced_ that the only sane option left to us was to hurl abuse at the creator of such a blue monstrosity.

Naturally, I left to make cocoa. Taking great care, as you'll appreciate, not to startle Tabby in her washing up bowl. When I returned, Emma had completed a whole half-inch of gib-sail, but couldn't slot it in to place, the relevant boat having been otherwise unassembled. This did nothing to diminish her sisters' irritation. The cocoa was more successful.

After that I outlawed puzzles for the sake of our continued humanity and instead they regaled me with the latest of the adventures in Oz. I never could make sense of these, but duly caught up, read the latest chapter, mispronouncing half the words to their endless entertainment, and sent them off to bed. Then, because I couldn't take my own advice, I resumed that blessed puzzle, and was no further ahead with it when the others got home with their account of _Drama in Inish_ as above.

On another note completely, I don't suppose I could beg a crib from you of that family Miri is staying with? I'm getting her news piecemeal from Larkrise, and also John, but since no one seems to understand who is what to who, I find it all a great muddle. I blame Jem, who never can seem to narrate a thing directly. Have you noticed? I observe it most among the Investigateers, as I've often wondered how they keep up with him. But then, the Inspector seems about as bad, if not worse.

And how does Miss Abby get on with the horses? I would ask your Kingsport Contingent, but as they've only just talked the children down from acquiring horses of their own, this seems rather dangerous water. Let me know, won't you?

Be well, do good work, and keep in touch,

Jo

* * *

Ingleside,  
Glen St. Mary,  
March, 1937

Jo,

At this juncture, all you really need to know about the family is that the older son is called Wilhelm and has taken in hand the job of escorting Miri and Miss Janie around Berlin. I don't know how he and Miri ever convinced Miss Janie to make the trip; by all accounts the refugee work in Perpigaun was her idea, and much more her sort of thing than the Berlin rallies they go to now. Miri, in comparison, is quite swept away by them; her letters are full of descriptions and impressions. It's the strangest thing, because I don't really think she's any keener on German politics than she was for the Spanish refugees all those months ago. But then, reading between the lines she's surrounded by people fired up for the cause and I expect it's hard not to get carried along by it. Easily done at that age, really. I give it months and then she and Miss Janie will be in Italy and no doubt Miri will be arguing the Italian corner. Or that's my theory. I said so to John and he looked quite perplexed, and said, 'Do you think so?'

Not unreasonable, since when you get right down to it, John really does have solid opinions on just about everything. The trick is getting him to wake up enough to relay them. Needless to say, neither of us could work out where the magpie-approach to opinions came from. Anne and Rosemary were none the wiser. Hearing this, Di paused over our chess game and said, 'Oh, you're impossible, the lot of you. Don't tell me you never feigned interest in a thing to get someone's attention?'

When it emerged none of us _had_ she looked incredulous and said, 'Well, I bet you _Mandy_ knows what I'm on about at any rate. The other girls that pin hopes absolutely do, I'd swear to it.' Then she thought a bit and said, 'Well, perhaps not Faith. I don't think Faith has ever pretended anything. Or Nan, because Nan would argue the sky was green purely for the sake of challenging the assertion it was blue. Especially if Jerry were the one saying so. But the others do.'

Thinking on it, I do know a little about what she means, because for as much as I enjoyed Miss Stuart's company, I always had to work to keep up with her on music. Though even then, I don't believe I pretended, so much as I was polite. But the rest of it quite baffled me. In much the same way I don't really feel Miri old enough to be traversing the continent, I can't seem to mentally get her or Mandy to an age where romance is even dawning on the horizon, much less is actively part of it. I'd go so far as to say I don't think it _is_ for Mandy. Her letters to us are full of observations on the little girls, the excursions she takes them on, and the animals they meet. Also the occasional sketch of those animals. They're still striking, and she's still refusing to think about anything like further schooling.

'When Miri's home,' she said to Anne again the other evening, over one of our rare telephone exchanges. 'I can't begin to think about it until Miri gets home. We'll go somewhere together. If we go at all.' Somehow, that seemed to sum up Mandy to the core. Anne made noises of affirmation, rang off, and then spent the better part of the evening lost in _Letters from Iceland_. At least, I thought that's what she was meditating over until she broke off combing her hair, much later and said without provocation, 'You do think Miri will come back, don't you Gil?'

I said of course I did, not really thinking, because I was writing up a medical record of a call Bruce had requested a second opinion on. Anne was frowning at the vanity though, so I said, because it seemed prudent, 'Why do you ask?'

She shrugged, with that old, easy grace, and said, 'Just a sort of creepy feeling I get down my spine, like gooseflesh. As if maybe the fascination with the Kiefer boy will stick, and we'll never see her again.' But then she laughed and said it was probably one of her fantasies, like Averil Lester and Percival, before they got caught up in the absurdity that was Rollings Reliables. I laughed with her, wondering vaguely how many people really did take up with the first person they took a fancy to. Demonstrably not many, seemed the obvious answer, judging from the evidence.

Except, well…our family never has been very good at sticking to observable rules of the universe, has it? Don't answer that. If you do, there's too high a chance that Anne's 'creepy feeling' will prove catching.

Love ever,

Gil

* * *

New Manse,  
Glen St. Mary,  
March, 1937

Jo,

By now Miss Abby and her pony have got to be quite the familiar sight around the Glen. We see them often, breath misting in the cold, and Gil half a pace a way, off on some gentle expedition or other. Hal Taylor positively gloats at how well matched they are, and Gilbert at how nicely she is progressing in learning to ride. They don't go far – just orbit places like the Maple Grove, or the Manse very slowly, and people have got in to the habit of stopping them to chat. Norman thinks the whole thing a great joke, in light of Gil's increasing reliance on that auto. Until lately, that is. Cornelia approves whole-heartedly, which should be no surprise, since Cornelia has always put great stock in The Way Things Are, which my grandchildren would almost certainly deem to be The Way Things _Were_. I include the Toronto Fords in this, who, for all their talk of mixed traffic, seem to cover a shocking lot of ground on trams and other such things. I don't believe any of them would have the least idea what to do with a horse. Not even Jims, who began on the Island. I can picture him now, puzzling it out and shaking his head over something he can't first disassemble for improvements.

Christopher, no doubt would second him. A call to Larkrise the other evening has yielded me the nugget that this week he is planning on becoming an engineer. Helen is thoroughly exasperated at this outcome, mostly, I think, because it does not conform to her future plans in which they jointly take over Faith's surgery. Faith is nonplussed likewise, but only, I believe, because she has lost an entire corner of the sitting room to an elaborate train rig that Dachshund Tuesday loves to chase and that otherwise trips up the unsuspecting or half-asleep. It's quite painful on the feet, arches especially, to hear her talk. Having myself spent many years being ambushed by train layouts, I have much sympathy on this score. Bruce has less, and assures me, and I quote, 'that a really good traintrack gets tributaries, like a river and must be allowed to sprawl a little.' Naturally, I have reserved the right to remind him of this when it is his turn to dodge such things as miniature engines, coal models and metal track after putting the fire out.

Elsewhere, things have gone quiet. Miri has not sent us a letter in weeks, which I know troubles Rosemary, but Anne makes very natural. She says the longer she was at Kingsport, the less regularly she wrote home, something which became a point of some distress to the Green Gables folk. She theorizes a profusely apologetic letter will arrive on the Struan doorstep a month from now, catching her immediate family up nicely, and us secondarily. I do hope she's right. For what it's worth, this is consistent with my experience of Una and Carl. Though Una has long-since settled into the habit of a monthly letter. The latest one details Iris's latest piece of accidental comedy – as ever, baking related. Una chalks it up to growing pains, but whatever the reason, she's more than usually anxious for treats between meals. Only what she says by way of asking is, 'I need something for my hand.'

None of the Trinity House triad are at all clear on how or when this became synonymous with requests for a slice of cake or an extra biscuit, but synonymous it has become. It's not going anywhere either; they've started saying it to one another between-times.

They're still keeping an anxious eye on China, as you'd expect, but Una's second-hand opinion on the subject, by way of Carl and the university, is that if anything should happen to Singapore as corollary, Britain will see them well looked-after. This is obviously enough for her, but I confess, is much harder to reckon with here. Strange isn't it, when I'm not the one living the experience?

Love and blessings,

J.M.

* * *

Martyrs' Manse, Kingsport, April, 1937

Gil,

Tell me that you too have spent the early part of this month chased around by conversations about aeroplanes and the Catholic Church? I don't suppose I should have done, except I went up to Fox Corner just as the headlines about that woman pilot came through. No one could talk of anything else. Well, that's not quite fair. The majority of the Investigateers were making a valiant effort to redirect the conversation and Shirley and Christopher largely foiling them, with Iain making the occasional contribution to their cause. My chief understanding, when I finally judged my call about the petition to start a Mission Garden to be a lost cause, was that _Drama at Inish_ has been replaced by _The Laburnum Groves,_ which is booked to travel to Halifax later in the year, if the run goes well. You must come and see _that_ at any rate.

I got to hear about the Passion Sunday ordeal later, and that confusedly, because Iain had obviously been recanting the thing to Emma. Well, I didn't half think of your Di and your letter of March 1-, I can tell you! If ever anyone had had to pretend interest, it was Miss Emma Blake on the subject of church politics. She recanted the whole thing to me and left me with the impression that she was combining words in combinations that made no sense whatever to her. The funny thing is that I don't think _Iain_ grasped the whole of the thing himself in the original conversation.

I said this to Shirley when I finally got to following up about the Mission Garden. He laughed good-naturedly and said no, Iain probably didn't understand, the whole thing had sounded terribly hush-hush, and it was only the Catholic papers reporting on the edict in the first place that had alerted Fr Emmery to it at all. _He_ then stuck it in a sermon, whence it reached Iain, who more usually heard talking church shop rather than politics, probably got the thing backwards and sideways in the retelling. Or that was Shirley's theory. I suppose it's too much to hope you or John has a more accessible opinion?

Love and blessings,

Jo

* * *

New Manse,  
Glen St Mary,  
April, 1937

Jo,

We have had the most disjointed letter from Nan today. Far and away the most disjointed she has ever written, which is quite the statement, as Anne assures me she got her share of disjointed missives back during the war. We can't make top, tail or middle of it at all. Except to say that little Miri is married as of last Sunday. Gil is – well, I don't think Gil quite knows how to talk about it. He was always a bit afraid we would never get her back from Europe, but I always thought he meant she'd fall in love with the place. That ten years from now she'd be a famous writer living in Paris, or some such. You know; all the normal concerns.

Anne, I recall, may have had other notions, but somehow – well, it's not that we never took them seriously. Not exactly. They only seemed such a long way off. Jo, she's so terribly _young_. I suppose Nan and Jerry must have agreed for the thing to happen – but it's really hard to say. I may have mentioned about this month's letter being all kinds of confused. The most coherent part is that Mandy is beside herself. Well, she would be. We all are, and we were never the gestalt entity Mandy and Miri were.

…

Forgive me. This too will be a disjointed effort, clearly. It's been a busy week, and things _would_ keep interrupting. Cornelia took ill, and couldn't get about, to start with, and then there was a wedding that I had all but forgotten about until Bruce ran over from the church to ask where was I. He's taken the choir over from Rosemary at last, and you wouldn't think that would cause bother, what with Bruce learning both piano and conducting at his mother's knee, but Change is plainly the enemy of the Choir wherever you go, and a good deal of fuss has arisen in the handover. I am newly sympathetic to your plight back in the days of Martyrs' and the unforgiveable sin that was singing Handel at a wedding. My lot don't even have that justification, because Bruce got his musical tastes alongside the lessons in piano and conducting!

Anyway, then there was an emergency christening, and another pre-arranged, by which point we'd run out of chrism oil – don't ask how. I never can remember who's supposed to see to such things. There were a handful of sick visits, and along the way we got our own letter from Miri.

She sounds happy, which is the main thing. On and on for pages about Berlin, and the flat, and what the ceremony was like. It all sounds lovely, and presently Anne is packing up an apple leaf quilt, relic to one Rachel Lynde, and Rosemary Miri's share of the West House china. She has always said it was to be divided between Miri and Mandy, what with the two of them being our oldest granddaughters, and Ellen not having any. I gather that Anne has added some of Susan's recipes and knitting patterns for good measure, as well as what was Susan's favourite of the tea cozies. It should make a nice, homey parcel for her to unpack, at any rate.

The only thing that really troubles me is that she makes no mention whatever of Miss Janie. I can't help but think it will be awkward for the young woman, but then, she always did have other places she was anxious to see after Germany, to hear Miri tell it. So perhaps she will finally get to them in her own time.

Love and blessings,

J.M.

* * *

Ingleside,  
Glen St. Mary,  
April, 1937

Jo,

You were asking about Mandy. I did speak to her the other evening. Largely by declaring the thing an emergency in the interest of overriding the three-minute rule. I tell you, Jo, never have I been more glad that the Struan house should have a telephone line than now. If only to get something approaching coherence out of someone.

Nan answered, and sounded altogether more collected than she had in the letter to the Manse. (You should have seen it – almost entirely stream of conscience, I think. No one but Anne could make it anything like coherent.) Anyway, over the phone she told me very calmly that the thing had been necessary, and I guess I've been a doctor too long not to decipher that without thinking. I don't recall that I said anything, but I obviously made noise, because Nan said over the line, 'I suppose you disapprove dreadfully?'

'No,' I said, wishing for all the world I was over in Struan, or anywhere remotely proximate to her. No good way of transferring hugs by telephone you know. 'No. Not that. It's just…'

'That she's so awfully young,' said Nan for me.

It seemed expedient not to elaborate the rest of that particular litany. You'll forgive me if I do here; terribly young, and alone and _far from home_. Jo, I can't do anything for her. I don't suppose I'd thought about it before – well you don't, do you? – but I'd sort of taken the liberty of presuming that in the unlikely event of meeting great-grandchildren they'd at least be tangentially in the same _country_ as me. Not that I'd got much to imagining it. Mandy and Miri are our oldest, and as I say, so very young. Young enough that I hadn't much got to plotting solid future plans for them, much less children or spouses and all the rest. I can still picture Miri as she was at our first meeting, china-blue and small. I thought she was going to die, Jo. Then I thought if I loved her hard enough, fiercely enough, I might keep her alive just long enough to know her. But then there was Faith, and her miracle-working, and I don't think either of us had quite banked on getting to _keep_ her.

And now she's in crisis again – mundane, quotidian crisis, granted – and too far away for any of us to invoke a miracle. I can't be there when it matters most, when she'll need _someone_ , Jo, and I can't even reach out and reassure her. I've tried to do it by letter, but it seems pretty cold comfort.

Over the 'phone, Nan said 'She'll need her mother – I was so glad of Mums in olden days,' and I didn't know what to say to that. So I said instead, because it had been perplexing me for days, that I just couldn't see how it had come about, what with Miss Janie in tow.

'Hadn't you heard?' said Nan, really surprised, 'She and Miri parted back in January. Miri went on to Berlin and Miss Janie to Italy.' A pause, while I processed this in which I could almost picture Nan shaking her head as she corrected herself. 'No,' she said, 'you couldn't have known. No one did. Miri kept on writing as if they were together, to everyone but Mandy. And _Mandy_ didn't say, because she never thought anything of it. It seemed just the same to her as a woodland walk with Michael Challow.'

How Mandy ever made those things comparable – well, no, I can understand. They're such close friends that I don't suppose she'd see how outsiders might read it as a romance. She probably thought it was the same with Miri and the young Kiefer boy. Swap woods for political rallies, and there you are.

Since then we've had the kind of glowing letter that is too enthusiastic to leave much feeling of papering over the cracks. As Anne said, reading over my shoulder, it's difficult not to be happy for her, confronted with evidence like that. But then she went and added a collection of preserves to the parcel she and Rosemary are growing. At this rate, I seriously question how the local postman will ever manage to deliver it. I didn't stop her though, because it just went to show that it wasn't _only_ me that wanted Miri to have all the comforts of home, or as near as we could give her. But then, isn't that always the way? And it's hardly the first time I've said that I wanted our Meredith girls closer. I could stand having Mandy and the little girls nearer as it is – no trips to Europe needed.

Anyway, as Miri describes it, the flat they're living in is cozy, which I take to mean small, but then, there have been worse beginnings. Our house of dreams was hardly a vast affair. There's even a jam closet, which will appease Susan's ghost. And a sloping ceiling with enough angles to delight Anne. She adds that the neighbours have been good to her, and that makes me glad, as you'll appreciate. How often lately have I worried about Miri being alone? I've lost count, and I'm sure John has likewise. There are any number of routines she has fallen in to, and as Anne says, Berlin clearly agrees with Miri. So that's all right. Still…it's a hard thing to realise. Not that we often got her over the summer holidays, or even Christmas, but there was always a possibility of that. It's much more remote now.

But the most surprising thing in all of this has been Mandy. She's become positively stubborn. Though I should go back a bit. They've been in Struan now almost longer than anywhere else, so it hardly came as a surprise to me when in the course of our last 'phone call Nan said Jerry was beginning to talk about moving again. They hadn't settled on where, which was as well, because Mandy threw what must be the first strop of her life and flatly refused to go anywhere. That's not to say she's never acted out – the Blythe stubbornness and Meredith pride are a potent combination in anyone – but she was always the more tractable of the girls.

Not this time. This time she folded her arms, tilted her nose Shirley-fashion, and said they weren't going anywhere until Miri came back. Jerry tried to point out the unlikeliness of that – and you know how good Jerry is with her, I think – and Mandy said 'but she might.' Said something might go wrong, or change, and she might need to get home and that they absolutely must have a consistent address in case Miri ever tried to find them out again. Nan tried to soothe her with promises of forwarding the new place, and Mandy ran off out of the house, shouting it might get lost in the post.

Needless to say, the little girls were somewhere between scandalised and alarmed; they adore Mandy, and I don't suppose they've ever seen her really upset before. According to Nan, Mandy was gone all evening. She reappeared after supper on the arm of the Challow boy. Just in time to put the babies to bed, for which their undying gratitude and much parental relief. He, incidentally, lingered long enough to say to Jerry – this while Mandy was settling the twins – that Mandy was welcome to stay on at Greenwood Farm (that's the Challow place) in the event they _did_ resolve on moving. Jerry was appreciative, but really, I can't imagine what he and Nan would do without _both_ their grown-up girls. And from Beatrice and Harriet's perspective the thing must be inconceivable. They hardly recall Miri, except as a name that gets batted about, or a face in family photos. Mandy, though, is their great protector. She draws them, notwithstanding the propensity for wriggling, climbing and otherwise chasing the sanity of unsuspecting adults into the far reaches of whatever room they happen to be in. She draws _for_ them too, great fanciful sketches that they narrativize. She sings them to sleep, and lets them climb in with her on the nights they _can't_ sleep. She takes them down to the ponds and indoctrinates them – Jerry's word – into the ways of all the surrounding wildlife.

And yet, from what I can gather, she really appears to be considering the offer. None of us can decide how to feel about it. Of course, it's a lovely thought that someone keep the place at Struan, but then…well, it seems unlikely that Miri should ever reappear there. She's enough of a writer that if, for some unthinkable reason, she _should_ want to come home, she could get hold of the address from her mother, and failing that, there's always Ingleside. Or the Manse.

But then I stop to think that if they stayed, if this once Nan and Jerry didn't move, the little girls could put down proper roots. They could walk over the train tracks to the local school, and make friends outside of home, and all sorts. Things Mandy and Miri never did until these past two years. When I think of it like that, I want it for them more than I can possibly describe, and possibly without justification. But the point is, when I picture them there, I picture them all together. I've had quite enough of scattering my family like seedlings, thanks all the same.

Though, speaking of scattering, Rilla and Ken are talking about going abroad for the summer this year. Impossible to take the children, of course, but Jims has offered to have them for the duration. I think he's looking forward to it, really – a summer of him and the aunts spoiling Sissy and the boys. Anyway, if they do go, they've promised to look in on Miri, which should satisfy several parties at once. And it would make a treat for her, too.

Here, Miss Abby grows ever more proficient with her riding. I've said before how well-suited Meg is to her in temperament, even if she did come to a stop the other day for no better reason than the appearance of a goat some feet ahead of us. We were riding back from the Upper Glen when the creature appeared, very friendly, and obviously enjoying its liberty. That it had won this illegally became vastly apparent when a harried-looking Crawford lad came flying over a fence and gave chase to it. Meg stood there bristling at the noise, and absolutely would not budge until boy and goat were safely beyond our reach, the goat no doubt, traumatising whatever pasture it had gone haring into on discovery.

Goats aside though, it's got to the point where I've begun to encourage Miss Abby to ride ahead. For scouting, I told her the other day, when she demanded a reason.

'But,' she said, quite unconvinced, 'can't you do that, Grandad? You've had _years_ more practice, and are ever so much better at it.'

I said no, I couldn't, because my eyes were old and weak, and hers, being young and sharp and able to spot a cake at half-a-mile off were obviously better suited to purpose. This being true – she's always running ahead when there's sweet things on offer – she couldn't argue her point further. But she's undermined the point of the exercise by stopping every foot or so to look behind her as she goes and check I'm still following. I'd know her anywhere for it.

The really funny thing is that that was just how I remember Dad riding, oh, years ago. He'd start off, and then he'd look back over his shoulder and wave to Mum and I as he went. He'd turn back to the road, but he'd do it again a few feet on, and he'd keep on doing it every few feet until we couldn't see him. It's the strangest thing seeing it in Miss Abby, and no doubt for entirely different reasons. Strange, isn't it, the little inheritances we bequeath the future without our realising.

I suppose your Mission garden must be beginning to put up shoots, is it? Or is it still too early? It's been so long since I was allowed to help in the garden that I've got quite useless at it – Anne and Abby will tell you. Let me know how it goes, anyway – and you too. I don't suppose Sam invested in any more puzzles by way of Easter treats? Tell him I shall, if he hasn't, purely for the pleasure of hearing you rale against something again. You do it so rarely, and so well. That being the case, I wish you, even so,

Love ever,

Gil


	36. Chapter 36

Martyrs' Manse,  
Kingsport,  
June, 1937

John,

I have just come from a telephone call with Nathan Arnold finalising arrangements for the little Arnolds over the summer. Well, for the foreseeable future, I probably mean. Of course, by the time this gets to you, I expect you'll have heard all about it by way of Nathan, Alice, Bruce, Di or some other branch of the Glen grapevine entirely.

The perils of international news, as it turns out. Certainly the perils of having contacts abroad who ring the international desk when news looks likely. This is why, if you were wondering, Naomi an Fred are even now making plans to head back to Singapore. Safer, Naomi thinks, than going directly to China. She thinks she'll do a better job covering whatever is unfolding if she's closer to the source. I'd take exception, except, well, it's her calling, isn't it? The way ministering was mine. She couldn't escape the work any more than I have. Besides, she always did say she'd go back.

They were supposed to go back in the Jubilee year. If it had gone ahead, you would have just missed them at Trinity house. But they decided against it, what with finally having Phil and I on the doorstep, and Phil's health increasingly precarious.

But then Una _rang_ , which she virtually never does, with news of Chinese affairs and did Naomi need somewhere to stay if the paper sent her over. Well, that was that. My last letter from her, by the by, is somewhere between apologetic and newsy. There's quite a good bit about Akela tormenting the buffalo until Nenni the cat went and intervened. The upshot of this seems to have been that Carl had to lure a sulking Akela back into the house with offer of a lamb bone to gnaw on, while Una subsequently found the cat grooming _papatee's_ fur to a nicety. Iris thought it all a grand joke, and stood by clapping her hands in delight.

I'd say I'm trying not to be worried about it, you know, only Naomi knows I'm worried. We talked that all out over the phone too. I was left with the distinct impression she is equally worried, but needs must and all that. As things currently stand, Nathan Arnold has volunteered to take the children through July. He will then send them across to me by boat with Jem and Faith when they return from the August furlough. I then have them for a fortnight, and will send them back in time for the school term.

Naomi, meanwhile, is away until the paper is tired of her covering the crisis in China, or until it resolves itself; whichever comes first. And to think I never thought news would prove for complicated family situations.

Joanie, being ever her mother's daughter and Phil's granddaughter, isn't a bit fazed by all of this. She's decided that all the shuttling about will be a tremendous adventure. Pip is less convinced, and not as good at hiding it as he thinks he is. Ideally, of course, Naomi would take them with her. But the cost of travel being what it is, it would take quite the acrobatic feat to get five people there and back again. It was bad enough, she reminded me, back in '29 when she and Fred had only Joanie to consider. And naturally it's an all-or-none sort of venture. I mean, she can't very well split the children up. A shame, because as both she and Una lament, it will be a while yet before they get Joanie and Iris in the same place. Odd to think that in another life they might have grown up as something like friends.

I can't really complain, of course, what with the Cricket Club being what it is. I gather Di would be going along with them, but for Miss Abby and her fear of people disappearing on her. Di still says (and I tend to agree) that some of her best photographs came out of that summer in Singapore. I will never forget those boats drifting down the flooded streets. Was it really ten years ago? It doesn't seem right when I think on it.

It must be, though. Gil was beside himself, and Nan's girls (they were little then!) got into everything. Specifically Mandy got into the piano and didn't believe Gilbert when he said he knew how to play – tried to tell him only women could play the piano. I have the most vivid memory of his mangling a some study or other, while she shrieked with glee and tried to tell him she was right between bouts of laughter. Not to be proven wrong, he all but hauled your Bruce over to the piano (it would have been just before his Redmond tenure, by my reckoning), whereupon he began to play some elaborate composition, crossed-hands and I don't know what. Didn't Mandy's eyes go wide!

'Told you so,' said Gil with satisfaction and twinkling eyes. 'Bet he could teach you.' But then Miri emerged out of the clutches of greedy relatives and off they went together. They were that proud of their wedding finery – was it like that this time round, with Miri? I suppose Rilla will be in touch with her soon. You must be sure to let me know how she is. The other day an exasperated Faith said, 'Why on _earth_ couldn't she have taken up with the aspiring farmer instead? At least I could stand to trust him,' and Jem mustered a smile. Another time, maybe had it been a year or three hence, we might have contrived to laugh. As Ellie and Mara rightly observe though, such things happen, and the best we can do is strive to be helpful about it.

Appreciably I can't do much at this end. If nothing else, I'm a stranger and would frighten Miri. Besides, I can't do lectures. Never could; ask any of my children. Phil would back them up, were she still here. But you have my ear, as do the children, if they want it. Always.

Be well, do good work, and keep in touch,

Jo

* * *

New Manse,  
Glen St Mary,  
July, 1937

Jo,

We have just come from seeing our intrepid adventurers off. There were hugs all round, and promises to keep in touch, lots of handkerchief waving, and a few tears from the children, though they did their best to keep a stopper on them until afterwards. Naomi says they will be back soon, a pretence Fred and I kept up with her. Last week's news of the firing of Beijing, and indeed all the swapping about of names and capitals since, hardly inspires confidence. Naomi was quite as animated as you'd expect, and Alice has promised solemnly to spoil the children in her absence. Or at least to corrupt them into nursing. Bruce theorises she can do both at once and I'm disinclined to argue.

Speaking of Bruce, he assures me that that piece Gilbert mangled all those years ago was Chopin. Rosemary seconds him, and the fact of their memories agreeing on such a detail leads me to trust them on this point. I'm sorry I appear to have missed the moment in its entirety, as it sounds like rather a lovely memory to have. It sent us trawling through photo albums for snaps of Di's wedding, and indeed, the little girls certainly got their share of photos. I _had_ remembered their dresses for the simplicity of them. No lace or frills as I think Irene and Ethel had expected from daughters of Nan, but a very elegant cut, and the merest suggestion of sleeves. I recall Mandy said hers felt more like wings and that she liked to suppose she was a fairy, flitting about from place to place. This might account for why, when not at the Ingleside piano, she spent so much of that weekend up trees, communing with squirrels.

That was also the first airing of the little girls' lockets, do you remember? Miri's was oblong to Mandy's more rounded one, and it was the first time I think Susan Baker really allowed herself to believe that the family wouldn't all starve to death in the wilds of Canada. They had been a gift from Jerry 'just because' as Miri told us, delighted. Rosemary called it a terribly grown-up gift, and Anne said she'd always longed for people to give her things 'just because' growing up. She was thrilled that the little girls should know what that was like.

I mention the lockets as Miri is wearing hers in her wedding photo. This finally arrived, oh, a week or so back. I kept meaning to mention it to you and somehow never could remember when writing up an account. Anyway, in the picture, she and young Wilhelm have got their arms linked. She leans on him rather, in a fashion that recalls Nan with Jerry. That _did_ make me smile. The brother, who is credited with the snap, has caught them between the sharing of some private joke, and they're both just this side of laughter. Miri's eyes are luminous in that way they get when she's lost to a daydream, and she's got her unencumbered hand up, as if she were waving at us. They look very smart, or smart enough to meet with Cornelia's approval. She took a long look at the picture, then nodded solemnly and said reflectively and a bit sorrowfully, 'Very nice. But I see she decided against white. A shame; I like the young girls to wear it. They can, you know, and I was always sorry I never could.'

Rosemary was quick to explain that Miri had never cared for white, nor Mandy either. They told me once conversationally that it made them think of nothing but ghosts, cold winters and freezing slowly to death. That got a sniff out of Cornelia that even Susan couldn't have bested, and the declaration that it was all 'stuff and nonsense.' Maybe so, but no stranger, surely, than Anne's innate betrayal by diamonds? Anyway, I think Miri looks very well. The commentary in the letter makes the dress out as navy, which Ellen says is too dark for a summer wedding. I don't pretend to know. I will say Miri looks terrifyingly grown up, between her hair all worn up, the cut of the dress and her gloved hands. Especially since most of our girls rebel against gloves on principle; Kitty loathes them, ditto Sophy. Sissy doesn't see their point and swears she will _never, ever_ wear them (her emphasis), a stance I keep waiting to hear Isobel has likewise adopted. Mandy says they get in the way of tree climbing, bird feeding and exploring her ponds. Also, she cannot draw with them on. Her sisters take her word as gospel, so I'm hardly holding my breath to hear Beatrice and Harriet are donning their first set of gloves – they don't even wear Nan's old pairs for dress-up as expected. Only Helen seems to appreciate them and Abby to aspire to them. Needless to say, Miri's white-gloved hands came as a bit of a shock. When did she get to looking respectable? Gil and I can't work it out, not least because she doesn't look at all like the girl we remember.

Rosemary here interjects to tell me I am oversimplifying, because of course no one ever looks the way you remember them when you are remembering from two years back. Certainly not when your memory is all jumbled with reminiscences about things that happened a decade or more previous – cf our discussion of Di's wedding. She also says I have an obligation to do Miri's hat justice, and has accordingly decoded its details. It's a suitably summery straw thing with an upturned brim and a ribbon the letter details as blue. Someone – Mrs Kiefer, I believe, has arranged a bouquet of cornflowers and love-in-the-mist slightly off-centre, a detail that must gratify Nan's heart. Anne was certainly enchanted by it. Miri goes on to say that she carried some of the same, though she has lost them by the time the photo was taken.

That is all we know. Rilla and Ken cannot get near her. All their messages were met with courteous acknowledgement that presently Miri was too tired for many visitors, thank you for offering, she wishes them well, etc&. They go to Germany shortly – will probably be there by the time this reaches you – and I understand Rilla's working plan is to attempt one of her 'drop in' calls on the off-chance. After all, it worked on Irene Howard, even in odd shoes. I do hope so.

Love and blessings,

J.M.

* * *

Ingleside,  
Glen St. Mary,  
July, 1937

Jo,

Still no luck at Rilla's end. Her last telegram details briefly a warm exchange with a well-intentioned neighbour of Miri's, but that's as close as she could get. They were moving on the next day, and Rilla intended to look in that mornin. As she's still in transit, I have yet to hear the outcome. Time was something of a commodity.

She has my sympathy, as it's been much the same here.

I was hoping for a lazy summer, what with Bruce having finally taken the practice over, when up Jims telephoned from Toronto. A lovely surprise, right up until the wee detail of the city reporting all manner of child illnesses.

'It sounded such an awful lot like your polio ordeal,' said Jims, contriving to put my heart in my mouth inside of ten seconds. 'I thought I'd ask what to do about the children.'

 _Pray to God they stay healthy_ hardly seemed inspiring advice, much less morale-boosting. Neither did _Get them out of the city sharpish_. Instead of all that, I took a breath and said how much we'd love to see them, why didn't he take them down to us for a bit, until it cleared up, or the hospitals were more certain about what it was.

'Sure thing,' said Jims, sounding more than a little relieved that he could temporarily retire his position as Acting Adult.

It was about then that I had to ring off to take an incoming call. This was Bruce, who was sorry to bother me, but did I mind…The way he said it sent my heart lurching from throat to stomach.

'You're going to tell me it's back, aren't you?' I said. Bruce thought so, as did Alice, but would feel better about a third opinion. 'Seeing as you know so much about it, and all,' he said. Of course, I said, turn about being fair play and all that. When you added up all the times I'd drafted the pair of them in to my previous endeavours in the name of more hands, and them no more than students in training, it was the least I could do. That got Bruce to laugh, something I sorely needed. Probably he did too, since nothing about being the other side of poliomyelitis in patients is much given to inducing laughter.

Bruce was right, of course. Third-party opinion entirely redundant. He knew it too. But the thing about knowing something awful is that it always comes with that first moment of unbelief, where you think maybe, possibly, you've got it wrong. For half a minute it's still possible to _un_ believe it, so you draft in someone else to make it real. Because if someone else says it's happening, then it's not your fault that you noticed it happening. You must know what that was like. I thought the least I could do, after all these years, was take on the responsibility of making poliomyelitis a reality for Bruce Meredith.

It's worse than ever before, Jo. Is it the same in Kingsport? I know it is in Toronto – in fact, Toronto might just have the market cornered on Crisis. I rang Kitty for elucidation and she says they are _drowning_ in deaths, and that that emphasis isn't hyperbole. She can't pass a house but it's got a black wreath, and the papers have entirely given up the pretence of keeping up on the death announcements. Rosedale Presbyterian is up to its elbows in funerals, and she thinks it's the same way out at Mary Magdalene, but can't be sure, as Cass is away on work with her anthropologists. It seems a safe enough bet, though.

Nothing for it, I suppose but to help each other through it as best we can. Thinking of you, and hoping Faith's cancelling the summer holiday won't complicate travel plans for the young Arnolds too much. I'll see if we can't send them back to you via Shirley, shall I?

Love ever,

Gil

* * *

Ingleside,  
Glen St. Mary,  
July, 1937

Jo,

The young Fords are settling in nicely, Jims inclusive. They arrived early last week, but between emergency summons from Bruce on my part and the Ford readiness to get into everything, I feel we've hardly seen each other. Jims did seek me out for advisement in a quiet moment as to what to do next year. He finished with the university as of June, which was earlier than expected, an a fact he's (rightly) proud of. Anyway, he's got his pick of what to do next between job offers and his lecturers wanting him to pursue further study. I tend to think he's angling towards a job; there's one in America building aeroplanes that he's terribly keen on, though naturally I can't imagine Rilla will be all that thrilled.

Anthony, meanwhile, has taken our piano hostage and sing-alongs have become a staple of evening entertainment. He's much better than I recall anyone of us being, which of course provoked Anne to asking where he was getting his lessons. A combination of the Toronto aunts, as it turns out. I confess, that surprised me more than it should have. Nothing about Cass has ever suggested at much musicality, the few times we've met. On the contrary, she's the sort of person you file under 'unremarkable' until reminded of her existence. Excellent in a crisis, but hardly the type that springs to mind listening to Anthony coax _Bring Me Little Water, Sylvie_ out of the piano – or banjo – as the case may be.

Liam is making some study or other of our family history based heavily on our ancestral Bible. This involves trying to read my father's handwriting, and his father before that. Neither of them were writing-men, and I wish him luck in this effort. Still, he thinks it might make an interesting exercise in some thing or other that I don't understand whatever, but I guarantee you he learnt at the knee of Cassandra Hargreave and her indices.

Jims mostly marshals them, when not bending my ear about aeroplanes, and in-between does things like query our lack of a gas stove and ask when we're going to update the boiler. Sissy joins him, and manages to exhibit even more cheek than he does in the process. Already they have disassembled and reassembled Di's camera between them, mended the Manse radio and have lost the past couple of days to generally mucking about with my auto. This last greatly exasperates Anne, as it leaves them quite covered in grease. I mind less, on account of their obvious enjoyment and the fact of having got back into the habit of riding most places on Tam.

Speaking of which, one of Sissy's latest innovations has been to fasten a cart to Meg to see if she'll pull it. She can, and Abby is delighted, since this makes it possible to include Hector on our excursions. Of course, this has it's pitfalls. Dulce tried to join in the fun the other day, and Meg flattened her ears and positively refused to move. Miss Abby tried everything, and I tried whatever was left after that. Anthony and Jims thought it a great lark. (As predicted, Jims did rather wonder if I'd be trading the auto in for a time-machine back to the '90s, and possibly a proper old-world cart to complete the equestrian outfit.) In the end there was nothing for it but to lift Dulce _out._ Dulce was atypically indignant, and demonstrated this by giving chase to poor, irritable Meg. To which end Meg wandered over to the sweetbriar and proceeded to eat it until all interloping canines had vacated the premise. Nothing Miss Abby could do would persuade her otherwise, and Miss Abby has got remarkably good with that pony of late. Your Joanie assures me most solemnly that they have a whole secret language that revolves around carrots and regular brushes. I can believe it.

Speaking of Joanie, it is all set up with Shirley about seeing them to Kingsport. He and family are stopping through on return from Scotland; they'll collect Naomi's children then and deposit them on your doorstep. Iain and Isobel will be delighted to have the company. Mara will no doubt be relieved that it doesn't fall to her to keep them in rounds of cards for the entirety of the journey. So really, everyone benefits.

It goes without saying I demand a full report of their visit. So do the Cricket Club members, though I suspect they can get one from the source, whereas I cannot.

Love ever,

Gil

P.S. I seem to recall your Emma being prescribed spectacles. Does she _wear_ them? Because I've already run out of creative ways to tell Sissy she _must_ wear hers, and she will keep getting eye strain in consequence.

* * *

New Manse,  
Glen St. Mary,  
August, 1937

Jo,

Rilla never could get near Miri – didn't we say? Do forgive us. I expect I meant to and forgot, and Gil meant to and then got swamped with work. Forgive me. I'm afraid it's been one of those summers. Rilla's on her way home directly. Well, Charlottetown, but it comes to the same thing. Gil will tell you about that, I expect.

I suppose I won't have said either that for the time being, Mandy has persuaded her family into staying in Struan. Well, I say persuaded. I mean that loosely. As I understand it, Mandy said she'd take the Challow family up on their offer of hospitality, the little girls launched into floods of tears (Rosemary presumes Mandy anticipated this) and Nan and Jerry relented. I'm relieved, I must say, though I do think someone might find a way of intimating to Mandy that her sister won't be returning. At least, none of the letters she writes make it sound that way. She's not in anything she wants out of, you understand. On the contrary. Her latest missive is profusely apologetic about failing to connect with Rilla, even as it details any other number of engagements she could and did keep. As Gil said the other evening, it's enough to make person wonder what kind of letters _Mandy_ is on the receiving end of. Because even Mandy, she of the squirrel-communion and tree spirits isn't above acknowledging the reality of her world. Even if she does go about it by declaring that one cannot simply convert people to God through a loaf of baked bread. We laughed, of course, but she wasn't _wrong_.

Una has written a very sensible thing about it though, in her latest letter. Of the kind that made me wake up a bit and read it again to be sure I hadn't imagined the whole thing. There was the usual Adventures of Iris and the Misadventures of the Menagerie (Akela tried to eat a roast dinner, Nenni murdered a school of mynas and left them on the dinner plates for her people, where Una found them when trying to serve food). But there was also a lengthy digression on the refining ability of life experience. The point of it was to illustrate how Miri's brush with it in Europe may well have refined her beyond the sister Mandy is missing. Occasioning as it were, a kind of grief over the sister that was. Una likened it a bit to our Maywater days, when we all kept trying and failing to get back to the way we were before. The way overnight Una took on hunting down and mending buttons, and Faith became spokesperson for the group, while Jerry was their great protector. Carl – I sometimes think Carl learned to love animals because he could find them anywhere in nature. Of course, some of it was about missing Cecilia, about looking for her where she wasn't. But there was a secondary loss too, of their younger selves, that they felt too. Una thought Mandy was learning some of how that felt – discovering, as it were, that the sister she said goodbye to all those months ago, is not, in fact, the one she's in correspondence with. I don't suppose she is either, if it comes to that, but I think perhaps we're slower to notice our own metamorphosis than we do others'.

Una goes on to add how much they're enjoying having Naomi to stay again. They talk ACS ideas over tea and salted guavas, while Fred plays chess with Puck. Periodically they stop long enough to reminisce with Li, and Carl makes them all laugh with some story or other about the university. I'm left wondering when, exactly, your daughter fits journalism into her schedule. But she must, because we're kept in a steady stream of foreign affairs that does _The Echo_ proud.

Love and blessings as ever, and our best to the young Arnolds. Their fellow members of the Cricket Club are voluble in the petition _haste ye back!_

J.M.

P.S. By all accounts your gift of the ribbon to Sissy Ford for her lenses was quite the favourite, though she hasn't got past wearing them around her neck. Gil would be at his witts end, I believe, if Bruce hadn't requisitioned him to battle polio. So it's Jims who is primarily exasperated with her presently.

* * *

Ingleside,  
Glen St. Mary,  
August, 1937

Have you ever looked a storm in the eye and known you can do nothing? Idiotic question. Of course you have, Jo. I'm not thinking.

It all began so well, too. Jims and the little ones came down, and it was idyllic. They went haring through Rainbow Valley; Liam dared to climb the Tree Lovers. Anthony kept us in music, and Sissy kept pace with all of them. I know Rilla was hoping for a girl with an inclination towards green hats, but the one she's got would much rather muck in with the boys. Jims prised me away from medical journals in the name of a fishing expedition, and then roped me into giving Sissy lessons in the same. Alastair and I competed over who could build the better fire, and pretended to be irritated when Liam with his Scout's Fire Starters badge outdid us both. I kept them in fish suppers – because I still cannot be bested at those – and sat out with them to watch the sunset. Shirley and family stopped by, as promised, and for all of a weekend, the little Fords and the Fox Corner children ran riot together with Di's wee ones, and it was the kind of summer I am always hoping for but never quite land. Usually, of course, they're all segregated into the Kingsport Contingent, the Toronto Fords, and our Glen folk. But with Jem and family back at Larkrise, and Kitty stuck at the paper – never mind most of the Glen children being under the polio – they necessarily came together. How Anne and I feasted on it! This is probably why I didn't right away think anything of Sissy's headache. She's always getting them, what with needing and refusing to wear her glasses – so she's not _entirely_ unlike Rilla – and I gave her a powder and called it eye strain. She promised to wear the eyepiece and lay off reading for the day.

Instead, she sat in with Hector and tackled the Sundial, and then turned pages for Anthony at the upright. She had no appetite for supper, and Di teased her for spoiling her meal with nibbly things beforehand. But then she complained of an ache in her arms, and just like that I was out of reasonable explanations. Well, out of mundane explanations, I mean to say. I sent her straight up to soak in a hot bath, and tried not to think of Miss Abby sobbing into my chest that _everyone keeps going away, Grandad._ Rilla was still abroad, and I absolutely was not going to have to send her a telegram saying that girl she fought so hard for was dying of poliomyelitis. It just wasn't happening.

What I did do was telephone Bruce with an apology that I wouldn't be able to help out so much the next few weeks. Straight off he said was everything all right, and I said I hoped so – if he had a minute, maybe drop in on us, or send Alice. I rang off, and there was Jims, with those terrible eagle-ears he surely picked up at Rilla's knee.

'You look awfully grim,' he said, leaning against the study door. 'Tell me, is God dead?' Once – it feels in another life – he made us weep with laughter with that line. Neither of us was laughing. Jims looked grim himself and said 'It's your polio, isn't it?'

I wanted to correct him. To say it wasn't mine, I didn't invent it, all I'd ever done was fail over and over again at wiping the hideous thing from the face of the earth. But all Jims meant, bless him, was that I'd become something of the expert. It's much the way I talk about 'Jims's aeroplanes' and I knew it. So I checked the tirade I had boiling under the surface and nodded.

Jims said, 'It's very bad?' and I said it could be. Then we parted ways; Jims for Rainbow Valley, and me to rale against the world on Anne's shoulder.

Bruce and Alice both appeared on the Ingleside doorstep promptly the following morning, by which point I'd got Sissy in bed and was trying to bring her fever down. Di was excavating Susan's cure-alls for anything and everything on muscle pain. Bruce, Alice and I conferred, Jims demanded ingress as the standing Ford adult, and reluctantly we let him in. Should he wire Mother Rilla? How bad _was_ it? At that stage we thought we could pull Sissy out of it sooner rather than later. She didn't seem as bad as Hector had last time. And she was older than baby Aurelia. So Jims wrote to say Sissy was ill but well cared for, everything was under control.

We hadn't banked on the dratted thing getting into her lungs, Jo. I don't know _why_ we didn't; I've lost track of the number of patients we've treated this summer who have died too young and gasping in front of us. The number we sent to hospital with a fighting chance, only to have the report come back that they'd died anyway. But those were _other people's children_. Oh, it's a terrible thing to write it like that. But Anne said it right. We were sitting either side of Sissy's bed, and she suddenly burst out, 'We've _had_ our share – God _must_ understand that. I know he does.' And I thought she was right. We'd lost Joy before she was ever really in the world, and Walter after he dedicated himself to it. Baby Aurelia with her fine, withered limbs, and sacrificed Hector's muscles to an illness I couldn't save him from simultaneously. And now the polio was back, creeping into Sissy's lungs, and I knew I'd never look Rilla in the eye again if I didn't get it back _out_.

'It's my fault,' said Jims from the door. 'I should have taken better care of them.'

'I should have told you to take them somewhere that didn't have polio,' I said, even though everything about the timeframe favoured Sissy travelling to us with it.

'Is there such a place?' asked Jims, and of all things, I was annoyed at how sensible that sounded.

I arranged to get her to the hospital. If there was _anything_ I could do – anything at all – I was doing it. Jims went to draft Rilla and Ken another note. I bundled Sissy into the car. Rosemary and Di promised to watch over the Inglesidean children for the time being. Naturally, Anne had gone with Jims and I to Charlottetown.

I couldn't do anything else. That was the worst of it, Jo. I'd done everything I could for Rilla's girl and it _still_ wasn't enough. I was reduced to trusting in higher powers than myself and could only sit there like a lemon, the same as all the rest of the family. I wonder now how anyone ever survives it. It reminds me terribly, horribly, of Alberta and why I went into medicine in the fist place. Only there wasn't supposed to be anything I couldn't fight.

We took it in turns to sit with Sissy, and fetch tea. Periodically we reminded one another we should probably eat. Even if it was only that dull, ditto stuff hospitals excel at. And there was Sissy, all bundled up in one of those great metal lungs, letting the thing breathe for her. So terribly small-looking. And her arms still in pain, I felt sure. I still couldn't do anything for her. I thought of Nan and Miss Abby and all of my people who have bargained with God in their turn and knew in a flash why they did it.

We were augmented – oh, I forget when – by Persis and Cass. Jims must have rung for them on one of his tea runs. They sent Anne and I home, for which Miss Abby's audible relief. She barrelled into my chest like a cannonball and said into my neck, 'I thought you would never, _ever_ come back! I thought we'd never see you again!' And then, recovering a little, she narrowed her eyes and demanded to know where Sissy was. The look she gave me when I said she was with the doctors knocked the air out of me all over again. 'And Jims?' she wanted to know. 'Is he with the doctors too?' Then, narrowing her eyes still further, 'he doesn't have to tell Aunt Rilla that Sissy is never coming back from the hospital, does he, Grandad?'

In fact, Persis and Cass had tried to send Jims. Jims wouldn't go. It was only later, when I'd returned and Persis had threatened to deny him access to the university library that he went. I guess that must have been a private joke between them, because it got the kind of watery smile from Jims that is all Rilla, and his reluctant acquiesce about returning to Ingleside. There was a wire waiting from Rilla to say they were coming home as soon as possible, but not to bother about opening up the House of Dreams, they'd go direct to Charlottetown. I know, as Jims rang us up and said so.

In the interim, Persis, Cass and I watched little Sissy in her lung, and they explained the library joke to me. It wasn't really a joke, though I suppose it was a bit of shorthand. You'll remember all those years ago when Ken and Rilla were at such odds? Well, I gather Jims used to go off to his aunts when he wanted a respite and the Grants weren't at home. Only, nine times in ten Persis was at the university library collaborating on an index with Cass for this academic or that. So Jims took to meeting them there. He never helped with the indices – Liam did that – but he'd help himself to a science book or three and read companionably. And whenever he took stubborn moods, and wouldn't go home, or wouldn't eat, they used to threaten to tell the porter not to let him in for his books next visit. It would probably be funnier if he'd never had a reason to seek them out. Or if I were hearing about it all over a fish supper in Rainbow Valley instead of while machinery whirred over his sister.

I'll keep you updated, or try to. John might prove better at it. But now I ought to look into a reservation for Ken and Rilla. It rankles, having them under any other roof, but on the other hand, it makes far more sense they be near Sissy in town than way out in the Glen. And someone must organize it. Call it a change of scenery if you like.

Love ever, Jo. Be well. Keep yours well. Let me know if they're not. If there's ever anything I can do.

Gil

* * *

 _Observant readers will have noticed a change in the family name of Miri's Germans. This comes on advisement from Kslchen, who knows far more about these things than I ever will. Whereas I can passably sing my way through German music, she actually knows this stuff. I'd be mad not to listen._


	37. Chapter 37

_Is it really almost March? How and when did that happen? If you're wondering, since writing last, our resident groundhog missed seeing his shadow, but we're still only on our thrid or fourth burst of 20" of snow. The dogs, who are 4" tall, are Unimpressed. So much for a hastening spring. Whatever the weather, thanks to all of you who have kept up with, read, and/ore reviewed this story. We're almost into 1938, which is where we should wrap up._

 _To those of you whose reviews I couldn't get to by message, I half want to throw up my hands and wail that I have done away with a grand total of exactly one infant in this story - which, all told, is low by my past history. But I don't mean it really. I love hearing what you think, and seeing what you see. Hopefully this proves satisfactory on that count._

* * *

Martin House,  
Charlottetown,  
September, 1937

Jo,

Rilla and Ken arrived late this afternoon. They've been up at the hospital ever since, and it's all anyone can do to remind them the canteen exists. Miss Hargreave – that's Jims's Aunt Cass – has quite given up and has taken to placing teacups in hands without so much as a by-your-leave. Thank goodness for Jims's Aunt Cass. I start to see why she's the anthropologists' favourite of the indexers to take on expeditions; nothing fazes her. Not my rambling, or Rilla's righteous indignation that this should happen to her girl, not Ken throwing said unsolicited teacup across the room. And almost certainly not the localised customs of whatever country she should find herself in at a given moment in the name of research. She told me about some of these over Canteen Ditto, but I fear I didn't take any of it in. A shame, because my boyhood self would probably have been fascinated. Though, in fairness to Cass, I don't think she expected me to take anything in. At that point we had run out of politely comisseratory things to say to one another. Who knew there was a limit?

Anyway, what I wanted to do with this snatched interval, was thank you for meeting my girl off the boat. Rilla mentioned it over one of the unsolicited cups of tea, and how good you'd been too her. I wanted to go, but in the event I couldn't bring myself to leave Sissy, never mind Anne and Jims. I kept on thinking that if I turned my back she would really be dead, and then how would I ever look Rilla in the eye again? How would I explain that in my compulsion to make sure she was alive and well, I had looked away from the girl she fought the world for and let her die? And how could I reconcile all of that with leaving Anne and Jims alone to witness it? Even allowing for the indominable Cass and Persis Ford?

Faith understood at once, when I telephoned to Larkrise, as no doubt would have Jem had be been on the receiving end of the call. She promised they would meet the boat coming in, but somehow I never thought…I jest about the canteen tea here, Jo, but whatever you gave them up at Martyrs' was obviously both superior and necessary. I do a great line in sheer stubbornness, evidence notwithstanding – ask Mara some time, she'll tell you – but for how to find hope in grey hours…They needed you for that. Thank you for being there, for reminding them, and me by extension. It's the sort of thing Anne can usually do without thinking, but the world has harrowed her so much, and the hospital is so stark and clinical, that I think even she finds it hard to imagine us into a happy outcome. Especially with the hum and buzz and rattle of that machine breathing for Sissy. I know it is good for, even _saving_ her, but that doesn't make it _easy_.

I forget, you know, that Anne began in grey hours. Possibly because when I first met her she was so full of sparkle and life. Or else because she has brought such colour to my lives, to the children. But occasionally, as now, some terrible thing will fracture that, and I'll catch a glimpse of how she must have necessarily got that way in the first place. It's why I mind so terribly, Jo, when I can't put it all right. Because if I can't do that for her, then I have betrayed something fundamental about her world view.

But you were lately beset with grandchildren, and I've never heard the outcome. Write and tell me about it, won't you? I don't suppose I'll take any more in than I did all that stuff about the matrilineal habits of whatever tribe Cass was on about, but it will be a diversion. And since Jims has outgrown the diversion-inspiring stage by some margin, we could all do with one.

Love ever,

Gil

* * *

Martyrs' Manse,  
Kingsport,  
September, 1937,

Gil,

You were asking about the grandchildren. They've all gone now, of course. I put Joanie and her brothers back on a Charlottetown-bound boat some weeks back, the last of a riotous collection of house guests.

It worked out splendidly. Jake, Ruthie and families were due to visit, and they wrangled it to line up with the arrival of the young Arnolds. The Very Young Arnolds? Sorry, it is belatedly occurring to me that the former is your name for Fred and my daughter, who of course are worlds away. Still are, in fact, which is why Nathan Arnold was on the receiving end of the boat. He's going to try and have them back up to me come half-term, in the event Naomi's journalistic integrity still requires her to be elsewhere, which it almost certainly will, if things continue in China as they are.

But I was telling you about the grandchildren. The mathematics of the arrangements quite defeated me. It was an easy enough thing to make up the box room for myself, and put Jake and Reta in the big, front bedroom. Arranging for Ruthie and Mark to take what used to be the boys' old room was no effort at all. But the children! Well, the room Naomie and Ruthie had shared was pinched even for the two of them. Phil might have found a logistical way to contrive it, tackled it like an algebra quandary. I tried, decided I lacked her genius and ended up by amassing cushions in the sitting room turned occasional church, and that delighted them. They slept the way I'm always hearing tell Tuesday does; piled on top of whoever is nearest with no care for personal space.

I joined them early on in the first week and got a bad back for my trouble. Inevitably, this led to my reminiscing, since they were demanding stories and all my best ones include Phil. The favourite of these, though, was a misadventure of my own children involving a melting pot, chocolate, and a coffee table Phil had never loved but her mother had. Do you remember that one? The misadventure, not the table.

I don't know how it got started, only that I came in one unforgettable afternoon from marrying Mrs Gresham, as she has been now for over twenty years, and found an open fire on the beloved coffee table of one Margaret Gordon. She'd been dead over a year by then, which might explain how we had got stuck with the table. It was one of those things with clawed feet and hand-painted insets of some pattern or other. I never did work it out, and hadn't a hope of doing it that day, because under the circumstances the tracery was all obscured by scorch marks and melted chocolate. Sam was building up a roaring fire, and the girls were most adamant that they'd got the idea from the latest _Girl's Annual_ or somesuch. (That subscription must have owed to Hetta, because Phil loathed _Girl's Annual_ , even when we became able to afford it.) I still have a hard time believing said magazine was promoting starting fires, much less melting chocolate _indoors and atop furniture_ , but then, I was never an avid reader of the same. As for _why_ the fire and chocolate – well, that was quite obvious. According to Jake they'd been dipping fruit in it 'for improvement.' Had been doing so for hours. Needless to say, they had no appetite for dinner.

And the thing was, they were so pleased with themselves that harder hearts than mine would have found it difficult to take them to task. Certainly Phil did, and in my whimsical moments, I still suspect she headed the whole operation with a mind to relieving us of the table. It fought with all the furniture crammed into that room, to hear her talk.

Well, the grandchildren were charmed with this rendition, so it should harldly have come as a surprise when they saw fit to revisit the episode. The state of those cushions! And Ruthie and Jake could hardly tell them off and be fair about it, though Mark and Reta felt no such qualms. For my part, I joined in the consumption of fruit and chocolate, and decided it was well worth the ruination of the furniture.

They left in fits and starts starting from the last week of August. Jake and family went first, and Ruthie followed. Naomi's children were last, by which point the sprawling appeal of the cushions had vanished. It was easy enough to tuck them up in the boys' remade room, though the arrangement didn't stick. More often than not they migrated into my room long before I was asleep. I taught them our evening prayers, which bit of theology I don't suppose Nathan will grudge me. After all, he's always expressing concern that they be brought up in the Body of Christ and not The Body of the Newspaper, or Politics. Lest you doubt these are institutions in their own right, I direct you to Joanie, who can tell you what constitutes a good headline, or Pip, who will rattle off what makes for front page news. Probably even baby Gordon could enlighten you on a point or two – how many Rs in hemorrhage and whether the deer laid or lay in the snow. I shouldn't wonder if Hector and Miss Abby are just the same.

Thinking of you and yours. The tea was nothing. It was only what anyone would do for parents in need of comfort. I'd say it is build into my work, only I long ago ceased to have an official function and anyway, it is never work. Not with you, or your children, or anyone really. I don't believe it ever really has been. Otherwise I might be able to switch it off. But you'll know what that's like.

May you ever be well, do good work, and keep in touch – and sustain one another through Canteen Grade Tea. It is truly something else.

Jo

* * *

Martin House,  
Charlottetown,  
September, 1937

A terrible conversation with Ken this evening. We were watching the therapist they've brought in to try and help Sissy breathe on her own, and it wasn't going well. He had a pocket watch he would take out and measure the seconds on – and she looked so _frightened_. Rightly so – she kept choking. Persis and Anne had taken Rilla to visit the little boys, and Jims and Cass were off at the canteen. Ken had been reading aloud to Sissy – some new adventure he brought back from England, about goblins or elves or something. Gobbets? I haven't caught much of it anyway, and I don't really know that Sissy has either. Still, it sounds charming, and is somehow more bearable than the hum and buzz of the lung.

Anyway, there we were with Ken's Gobbet book on his lap, all greeny-bluey and mountainesque to look at, when he suddenly said, 'It's all my fault.'

Now, I can see how Jims makes it his fault - though it isn't - and I knew why I made it _my_ fault, but Ken…well, he wasn't even _here_. But then I thought, perhaps that was it, because I knew how I felt when I came home from Over Harbour to Nan's letter that Di was ill with that awful Influenza. I didn't say that, because somehow it felt all wrong to draw comparisons. So I sat there and stared at the green-blue of the book with its mountains, and then he said, 'I keep thinking, if I'd wanted her more…'

He didn't finish, but then, there are so many what ifs to play with. She might have been born sooner, and eluded polio on those grounds, or maybe God wouldn't have felt compelled to snatch at her like that, even though, of course, that isn't how God works. She could also have been a boy, and that wouldn't have saved her either. Or not born at all, which would have, but we'd miss her prattle. Or they could have taken the children with them to Europe, or, or, or…There are a whole host of possible could-have-beens, and I said so. But the possibility of them didn't make the present circumstance his fault. I said, 'It was my idea they come to us.'

'You were trying to get them out of the city,' said Ken. 'That was a good thought.'

'You were trying to keep your family safe,' I said, 'all those years ago. That was a good thought too.' Even if it had cost him an awful lot of sleepless nights, though I didn't say that. The way he grimaced, I didn't have to.

But then the therapist-person finished with Sissy and they eased her and her tray back into the lung, and Ken went back to read to her, so there was nothing more to say.

Hobbits, by the by, not Gobbets. They're called Hobbits and Miss Abby is delighted by the copy Rilla gifted her and Hector, or so Di told me over the phone. It is even now defining the adventures that she, Hector, Meg and the Arnold children go on. There are spiders and wolves (I think?) and all sorts to do battle with, and I'm sure I'd be able to explain it masses better if I could only get home to them with good news, instead of worrying myself into next year up in town, in a room that isn't mine and has the most appalling paisley wallpaper. If you want details, you might write to Miss Abby. Somethow, I don't think Sissy will remember much of it – and that's in my optimistic moments.

Love ever,

Gil

* * *

New Manse,  
Glen St Mary,  
October, 1937

Jo,

This is to let you know that Joanie is thriving at the school. I expect Nathan has told you, but as Alice Caldicote has just been talking my ear off on the subject – in particular the young Miss's brilliance at debating – I thought I'd pass it on. She's been as good as her word about spoiling them, by the by. Which should not be taken to mean Bruce had it wrong about her making medics out of the lot of them. She's forever dropping in on the Methodist Manse with little tokens – penny sweets for after school, sticks of fudge for Sunday pudding, books and swatches of bright fabric and all sorts. Quite a lot of it seems to get repurposed in games of Medic, though they're also deep into something called Middle Earth that they've graciously let the young Fords join in.

You'll gather they're still here. Jims had talked about taking them home to Toronto, and the Aunts were prepared to help him with it, but Sissy was so unwell for a week or three there, that no one felt comfortable about it. I think Rilla really thought she'd only have to summon them back for a funeral. I know Gil did.

So for the time being, they are enrolled at the local school and doing swimmingly. Liam's pet subject, you'll be unsurprised to hear, is history, and Anthony's, equally unsurprising, is music. He's head of the class both in theory and practice. He explained to me at great length that this makes him one of the Elves of Mirkwood, and I have to take his word for it, because Miss Abby's best efforts notwithstanding, I am quite in the dark about how it all comes together. Bruce made a second attempt, and it was valiant, but all I'm really clear on is that there's a magician of some sort, a riddle contest, and somehow, a dragon. I believe there is also an episode involving barrels, but could be wrong.

Anyway, as of writing, Sissy can breathe alone for an hour or two at a time. Gil is beginning to think she may be clear of it before the year is out, which would do everyone good. It is the best she has done against the pocket watch to date, and the other day she even held a conversation with Rilla on her own. It wasn't long, and I gather there were quite a few lengthy pauses, but it was a definite start.

In more distant news, Miri's letters continue regular, but not altogether detailed. She is well, from what I can gather, and looking forward to the baby's arrival. She was sorry, too, to have missed Rilla's visit, and hopes that she and the Fords are well.

Elsewhere, Naomi confirms my suspicions that Una has befriended _papatee_ , resident buffalo. Not that Una has said so, but on the other hand, she takes almost as much trouble over it as she does Iris and Nenni, so she can't be entirely averse to it. See further her tolerance for Puck and Akela. Speaking of Puck, he took an unexpected liking to Fred Arnold, and to demonstrate this, occasionally offers Fred some of his peanuts. Fred doesn't much care for them, as far as I can tell, but also doesn't like to offend Trinity House's resident monkey. He is even teaching him the rules of Croquet, which Una and Naomi fail to see the sense in, but Iris and Li find vastly entertaining. Especially since it isn't unheard of for Puck to run amok with a mallet and bludgeon any wickets that foil his efforts.

None of this convinces me you will have your girl home any time soon, but at least she is in good company. Have you thought of what you will do for Christmas? Because we'd be happy to have you here, if you were so minded. There's certainly room enough. I even think between us we could set up the rest of the children – after all, you and Gil contrived it before.

Do let me know. Until then,

Love and blessings,

J.M.

* * *

Station Room,  
Charlottetown,  
November, 1937

Jo,

Today was a good day. As you have probably deduced from my letterheads, we have since returned to Ingleside and now only make the twice-weekly trip to keep an eye on things. It was thrice-weekly, but we are easing off by inches, as hovering is probably unhealthy.

We arrived around eleven, which was tea time, and found Sissy taking hers with Rilla and Ken, albeit cautiously, what with her still lying flat on the tray of the lung. But she had been out for fully three hours by then, and looked more herself than she has yet. Of course, it was wrenching, watching her trying to talk with her hands, as is her wont, and finding they weren't up to the task. Jims used to joke, you know, that if he ever wanted to stop Sissy talking, he'd tie her hands at the wrists. It always got a laugh, because it was so _true_ , and yet, she hasn't let that stop her yet. Not her hands, which are slow for lack of use, or her arms, which have been made clumsy, or the iron lung and the conspiracy of her own lungs against her. I told you she was like Rilla after all.

Far and away the best bit though was that she was finally able to reassure them she didn't mind about the machine. It's noisy, but she's never alone – see further her recapitulation of the Hobbits to all interested parties – and she can see quite a lot of what is going on behind her by way of the mirror built into the thing. Rilla particularly, I suspect, needed to hear that, but really we all did. And the thing is, this was the first time she'd said it and I _believed_ it. We stayed all through dinner and into the late afternoon, and Sissy kept right on chattering all through it; about the nurses and what she thought of them, the names she had for the cracks in the ceiling and when was Ken going to bring her a new book? She wanted to know what Jims had decided about work and when was he next coming to visit, because if he was going to America she had to make sure he had a spare room to put her up in.

Jims, you understand, has slotted himself into what was Susan's role on the days when we are in town and Di at the paper. I suspect the children are very glad of having him, not least because he makes a Baker-standard monkey-face. It is beneficial, but it does rather cut into visits to town. He was going every evening until I insisted he stop, for fear of exhausting himself. Now he goes every second day, and brings the little boys at weekends, or we do. And he never forgets the Aunts' letters. They've had to return to Toronto for reasons of work, and didn't they have opinions on it! The trouble, of course, or at least some of it, was that Cass particularly could hardly claim family obligation, whatever hand she's had in shaping Anthony's taste in music or Liam's preoccupation with history. And while the local college porters might assume she's the boys' natural aunt, I hardly think the academics would _care._

Anyway, I said I'd be sure to remind Jims about the spare room and to update her on his career prospects. (He's settled on the job in America. Rilla, predictably, is unconvinced this is a safe place for a Canadian-raised war-baby to live, and does a very good impression of Susan Baker telling everyone so.)

Oh, it was _good_ , Jo. Naturally, Sissy was beginning to wear out towards the end, but nothing unexpected. Jims will go up tomorrow, and bring her a card from said college porters, and no doubt bring back a report, but presently I am very satisfied with her progress.

A brief delay as our train came in. I should be wrapping up to do a proper stock-taking with Anne, about the landscape as much as about our granddaughter, but I did first want to tell you about coming back to Ingleside. Miss Abby was beyond relieved. We returned shortly after the therapist and his pocket watch first started to really make progress. Did I ever doubt his methodology? He has been marvellous. In any case, we were barely through the door when Dulce and Miss Abby came barrelling at me. She's grown a whole two inches this summer, and I barely noticed until her head came into contact with my ribs, rather than my stomach. If she goes on at this rate, she shall soon get to be quite as tall as Di. Also underfoot was a bundle of fur that goes by the name of Flossie.

Alastair brought her home from work at the request of some nearby farmer or other, who was overrun in young terriers. He decided we had the space and it would make a useful diversion. Also, there are probably worse things to have on hand than a ratter. Personally, I wasn't aware we needed either ratter or diversion, between Mirkwood, Hobbits and all the rest, but then, I was away for so much of the summer that I concede he would know better. Though really, I think it boils down to Alastair having a soft spot for unwanted animals.

Much like Dulce, this one came home in his hat, though she was in considerably better nick. Di says we are getting to be running quite the menagerie, but no one else minds. Dulce is delighted, because she has finally found someone who appreciates her kisses, and can get away with washing Flossie's eyes for hours at a time. Washing Flossie's eyes, to be clear, is a very time consuming business. They do a great deal of tearing around the yard, and batting paws at one another, and I begin to think Alastair really got the dog for Dulce. She has been so much by Hector's side that it must be quite exhausting. After all, he adores Dulce, but she doesn't get to be much of a dog when she is ministering to him. And he was in a trying mood the other day. A book he wanted was too high, and as Anne was up at the Manse and I collecting the post, Do didn't hear him until he gave an almighty yell and toppled his bedside lamp onto the floor. Several more accessible books had followed it by the time she arrived on the scene. They both felt terribly about it afterwards, of course. Di for being elsewhere, Hector because he frightened poor Dulce. She was over it almost at once, but I still think she was better for a half hour of chasing Flossie.

Anyway, on first arrival I just stood there with my arms full of Miss Abby, processing the addition that was Flossie and being bombarded by Dulce's enthusiastic leaps and parries at my knees.

'You're quite sure,' said Abby, peering up at me with eyes that were decidedly green that day, 'you're back to stay? You won't have to go away again?'

I said I was sure and apologised about being gone so long. That relaxed her enough to ask how Sissy was. When I said she was much better she said, 'That's all right, then. I guess you can come back if Sissy is eventually coming back.' Then, thoughtfully, 'You did explain she has to come back?'

I said I knew she would, which at the time was justified optimism but that is now a fact, and she let me go. There was tea, and much snuffling and inspection of our shoes by Flossie, Dulce to be petted and Jims and the little boys to update. And, of course, there were rides to resume with Miss Abby. She'd got out of the habbit with me away, not liking to go alone. Alastair had tried to keep it up, but she was adamant it wasn't the same and wouldn't go much beyond Ingleside with him.

Now, of course, Meg has taken against the incoming cold. We got our first snow the other day, and she looked personally offended. As if to ask, 'Why would you order this?'

A question, in fairness, I spent many years asking when riding out to the Upper Glen of a stormy, blustery, snow-filled night. Anne can rhapsodize about snow almost unceasingly, but then, she's never had to deliver an infant at three in the morning under forty inches of it. Wasn't _that_ memorable. But you must have your own version of this, and I really do owe Anne a talking over of the visit. Keep us abreast, as ever, of Kingsport goings-on, and we'll do the same at our end.

Love ever,

Gil


	38. Chapter 38

Martyrs' Manse,  
Kingsport,  
November, 1937

John,

I'm afraid I never did reply to your letter of October – , at least not on the subject of Christmas. We had hoped, erroneously, as it turns out, to have Fred and Naomi would be back for the occasion. Or perhaps Nathan had no such delusions and only I cherished them. They will not be back, and that being the case, Nathan has generously suggested he travel to Kingsport with the little ones. He will have the box room and the children their previous set-up. Increasingly it is ceasing to be the boys' old room and become the Young Arnolds' accommodation.

This also puts Nathan Arnold in the way to help with the Accidental Church, which he's been expressing interest in ever since he first got to hear of it. I don't know what he'll make of it – it really is a very modest affair – but I shall be glad of the assistance. Everyone will. There's always so much to do, you know. Things to mend, knitting to keep people in, food to parcel out, all that sort of thing. And it all has to be done in the most quotidian way, because otherwise it might be charity, and none of my people has ever wanted charity. Funny how that goes, isn't it? We _know_ self-reliance is a heresy, and yet, somehow it's so much more bearable when we think we're doing other people a favour. Why do you suppose that is? Has it to do with wanting to meet our own quota of good works, do you think?

All I know is that it was exactly how I felt when Phil died. Here was everyone around me wanting to help, to box things up, and tidy other things, offering hot meals and more tea than I could ever reasonably drink, and through it all I had the most overwhelming, and no doubt uncharitable instinct to demand to be left alone, because I couldn't bear the thought of sitting by and being waited on. And then, somewhere in the fog of it all, it dawned on me that I _had_ to let them help, or risk hypocrisy, because when it came to a point, it wasn't anything more or less than I'd spent my life doing, and surely I was only as mortal as the people I ministered to. Certainly I wasn't their better. So I did my best to relent graciously about the food and the boxing up and all the rest – I'm still not sure if I managed it, but I really did try. And it was humbling to know how many people there were around to reach out to.

But before I got off on theological diversions about the nature of charity and the holiday season, I was going to say that from helping with the Accidental Church, which really needs a proper name, the longer it goes on, we'll go on to Mount Holly. I have no idea what Nathan Arnold will make of that, either, though I shall certainly enjoy hearing what he has to say on the subject. It has been a long time since anyone was more discombobulated by that grand place than I was on first encountering it. And, of course, Ruthie will enjoy the occasion of it. With any luck Naomi is back in the New Year, though I've stopped holding my breath on that one. If we're _really_ lucky, she'll return with your children in tow. I fear, however, we may have to settle for us two being in the same place at the same time. Perhaps Easter?

Be well, do good work, and keep in touch,

Jo

* * *

New Manse,  
Glen St Mary,  
December, 1937

Jo,

I shouldn't expect my children home any time in the near future, though it's a lovely thought. I wish they _would_ come back – I do not like the news from Nanking at all. As it is, Una's latest letter is all taken up with the antics of the ACS children in preparation for the Christmas appeal, and some winter-season fireworks display that I do not think belonged to our observational calendar, but almost certainly was on Li's radar. There's still more details about an excursion – again with Iris – to the _bansawang._ It was a good production by all accounts, the kind with brightly-coloured puppets and very singable music. Naturally Iris was delighted and kept trying to join in. I wish I had been there. I am making do instead with several familial accounts and your daughter's third-hand recapitulation of the same. I'd ask if I'd ever mentioned what a good letter Naomi writes, but then, I expect you know.

Carl, meanwhile, is in the throes of wrapping up the semester, which means marking the usual coursework, grousing about the students' handwriting, and polishing the odd article for publication. I think the latest is something to do with the myna population, but cannot be sure.

In altogether more definite news, Miri has had her baby. There are no pictures as yet, though we do know she is called Ursula. This information by way of Mandy, who opines that irrespective of any built-in endearments it might engender, it is exactly the sort of name the girl in question will come to rebel against. Rosemary, Anne, and Nan tend to agree with her, though I think it nice enough.

Miri being Miri, she has already shortened it – after a fashion – to 'little bear', which seems more likely to stick – not least because Nan and Mandy have both taken it up.

This comes to us just as Sissy is beginning to outgrow her name. Gil will be clearer on the how and why; my chief impression, talking to Jims is that she's sufficiently frustrated with the rehabilitation process as to want nothing to do with anything that came before the polio. This includes Cassandra Hargreave's old petname, with a built-in caveat for that woman, on account of her inventing it. Just as well, since all efforts on her part to remember the change have, apparently, resulted in any number of amusing hybrids. All that to say she's Elizabeth now, if I can ever get my mind around it. It's such a _long_ name, and she such a slip of a girl! Elegant too, in it's way, and our Sissy – Elizabeth! – has long disdained elegance. The thought of her in hat, gloves and fancy frocks – can you imagine? I am comforting myself with the fact that neither Gil, Anne, Rilla, Ken nor any of the immediate family can get it right either, though Jims is trying harder than anything. He seems to have compromised on Liddy, though no one else can get away with it. I know, as little Anthony tried and was thoroughly dismayed with the telling-off he got for using Jims's name for her. From Sissy, naturally, not Jims.

You will gather from this that Sissy – whose name I really ought to get right, at least on paper – is home. Or back at Ingleside, anyway, for which much gratitude all round. As I understand it, the family will stay to Christmas before travelling back to Toronto. Gil isn't thrilled about it, but even he admits that Sick Children is a very good hospital and should be able to minister to Sissy – Elizabeth! – should the need arise. In which instance Jims and Rilla have both promised solemnly to be in touch. Though really, with the polio died down, Bruce and Alice seem fairly certain there isn't much to worry about. They've made a thorough enough examination of Elizabeth, as has Gil, and the Kingsport hospital likewise, and all seem satisfied.

But you were asking what made _receiving_ so hard. I owe you a thank you, by the by, as I got rather a neat sermon out of the subject, though I say so myself. I don't know, exactly, that self-reliance comes in to it. Oh, I suppose we want to be capable, but I think more than that, we don't want to be thought _vulnerable_. And nothing is more vulnerable than opening up to receiving the gifts of others, whether it's casseroles, hospital tea or brightly-wrapped gifts. It highlights a generosity of spirit that we shy away from for fear of falling short ourselves. We learn along the way, I think, that to be open like that is love at its rawest; to put yourself in other hands and trust them implicitly. But it isn't an easy thing to learn, and I'm not sure we ever _stop_ learning. I know I'm still turning it all over.

In the event we aren't in touch again before the season's over, a very happy Christmas to you. Kiss the wee ones for us.

Love and blessings,

J.M.

* * *

Ingleside,  
Glen St. Mary,  
December, 1937

Jo,

The pictures have finally arrived! Miri has even coloured them in a little for a better idea of the subject – presumably this was to appease Mandy, as these come from the surplus Nan sent on. I should like a proper letter from _our_ girl, just to know it went well but am contenting myself with Nan's recapitulations of such missives as she and Mandy get. (I gather that ever since the Kiefer episode, Mandy has been sharing her letters on principle. She really had no idea at the time that she was receiving news the others weren't privy to, or so she says, and Jerry and I believe her.)

She – Ursula – has quite the look of Nan about her. Not much hair of course, but enough fuzz to suggest it will someday be quite as glossy and dark as any chestnut, with no hope of it lightening to red. This fact much pleases Anne, though I confess some disappointment. After all, it has done remarkably well for the women of my acquaintance, and I refuse to hear any contradiction on the subject. Even Rilla cannot argue, with her girl home and the boys all around her.

We have set Sissy up in the old nursery – what was once Miss Abby's room before we moved her downstairs to Susan's room. It was strange walking in again and seeing it all done up differently. There was one of Mrs Lynde's knitted quilts over the foot of the bed, and a Log Cabin design of mother's that I hadn't seen since before Alberta. I thought Anne or Di must have riffled through the attic to find it, but have since discovered the decoration owes to Miss Abby. She's been very concerned about Sissy – our little Elizabeth, I ought to say – ever since she went to hospital. So the other day she begged off her sewing lesson in favour of kitting out Sissy's room. Di had no objection, on account of never having been much for sewing, even before the war. Though she does think everyone ought to know the basics; buttons, darts and something called a French Seam that my mother must have thought would stymie me, because I'd never heard of – much less mastered – it. And Mother did _try_ with me, you know. I think she had visions of me running half-wild around Alberta otherwise.

Then Joanie came up after school and lent a hand, which is why in addition to the quilts and embroidered pillows there was also a good selection of dolls and cuddly toys to be had. Someone – Jims, I imagine – had anticipated Elizabeth's _actual_ tastes, because there was also a brand-new puzzle of the Canadian Rockies at sunset, and the kind of toy trains one can easily run over a counterpane. I make them vintage of Bruce Meredith.

Reading it over, that makes it all sound rather cozy. When I came in the other day, little Elizabeth was raling against the puzzle for not doing what she wanted. I don't mean that the pieces wouldn't go together – though, as you'll know, that's trial enough – but that she couldn't manipulate them. She had all the edge pieces spread out on Anne's beloved lap-desk and was trying to slot them in place. Only her fingers couldn't get a hold on them and she kept dropping them. As I came in, she tried to throw the whole lot on the floor, but her arms were still less up to that, and she ended up in a heap in my arms.

'It's not _fair_ ,' she kept saying. 'I'm _good_ at this. Better than Jims. He says so. But I can't even do the edges!' There was quite a lot else, about wanting to go back to the hospital and into the lung again until it fixed her hands. I tried to explain it didn't work like that, and of course it was entirely the wrong thing to say. But you don't think, do you? In the moment you just want to make them all better. I offered to help with the edges, and got another tantrum for my trouble, and really, Jo, I was asking for that one. But it was the only thing I could think to say, watching her hands twitching like leaves, and knowing I could never give them back to her as they were. Knowing I'd trade my soul to do just that. Is that heretical? Probably. Forgive me. But she was so _helpless_ , and I couldn't make it better.

Eventually she subsided and I asked what exercises Bruce had given her to work on. That got me a glare, and a refusal to comply, because apparently whatever it was was worse than puzzles for things she couldn't do. I said we'd do them together, if she liked, but Elizabeth didn't fancy it at that moment. She wouldn't be read to, either. Only Ken and Jims can read to her. I sometimes wonder if she thinks it's my fault for not making a better job of treating her. I know _I_ do.

It's not just the puzzles, or the exercises. I think that would almost be all right. It's everything else, too. As per the hospital's instructions, Rilla's kept her on soft food. Everything from jellied salads to soups, and none of it is any good, because spoons defeat Sissy worse than anything. Half the stuff ends up on the bedspread, and no one minds, but _she_ does. We had briefly set up a rota to help about feeding her, but have since dropped it, since no one but Jims is allowed that privilege.

Had you realised they were so close? I confess, I don't believe I had. He's always been good with the little ones, of course, but I venture he's never been better than he is now as Sissy's hands. Elizabeth's. I really am trying.

Anyway, we'll see what we can do to make it a jolly Christmas. We so rarely get Rilla and family down for the occasion. It's the McNeilly year to have the Fox Corner family, but Faith and Jem have promised to make the trip, and Teddy. Kitty is tied up with the paper, something about the fallout from that American gunboat outside Nanking. Sorry, it's not Nanking anymore is it? I fear I've fallen rather behind on international news trying to keep abreast of more parochial concerns. John will know. And of course they're running commentary on Alberta's Accurate News Information Act, and Kitty, having umpteen opinions on the legality of the thing, has her fingers deep in that pie. I can't decide if she's heading towards getting herself arrested for sheer outspokenness, or about to take over the newspaper empire. Times like this I think it could go either way.

Love ever,

Gil

* * *

Ingleside,  
Glen St Mary,  
December, 1937

Happy Christmas!

Much of the household are out inspecting what Alastair makes deer tracks in the snow – no one with more gusto than Dulce and Flossie – so I thought I'd snatch the moment to write to you. Though I say it myself, it has been a Christmas to remember. Following the revelation that Meg would still pull the odd cart, Santa made his appearance this year ably assisted by an improvised sleigh and Ingleside's beloved pony. Di even conspired to weave a ribbon into her mane, an endurance Meg suffered nobly. Of course, she wasted no time in trying to _eat_ it, once Miss Abby commenced unplaiting it, but she looked very smart while it got photos, I think. Also, the dogs made admirable sleigh-chasers, or elves as the case may be. Not that we dressed them up, or even conscripted them. They just saw an unsolicited vehicle round the front of the house and commenced to sound the alarm. Needless to say, the children were delighted. Teddy, who had _actually_ been conscripted to the cause of Elf-in-Chief, acquitted himself nobly. He turned one of the greener socks upside-down and wore it as a hat all day, even when Christopher and Helen laughed at him to stop.

Anthony scrambled up onto the piano and promptly forgot that the machine had an off-switch, so to speak, so we had music all round the clock. It wasn't even all carols – or not recognisably. He's getting quite improvisational with it, which Teddy and Jims applaud, but I don't know what to make of. Rosemary says it isn't so many miles off early ornamentation of music by people like Handel, but then, I never knew enough about people like Handel to keep up with Rosemary Meredith, so defer to her on this one. What do you think?

The highlight _this_ year was Sissy's cat. Elizabeth's cat, rather. You know how Rilla has always loved them, and Silver Bush was overrun with them this year, or someone up that way was. What was the name of that chap their Winifred married, do you remember? It's moments like this I miss Susan. She'd have not only his name, but his mother's name and the name of the gentleman she'd rejected before accepting his father. Anyway, the cat came from out the Bay Silver way, and is as fine and smart-looking a Mackerel Tabby as you could wish. Bruce Meredith took one look at her and said, 'Why, it's the inheritor of Stripey,' which of course it was. This prompted Alice to say she'd have the head of anyone that tried to drown it, and Elizabeth to look suitably horrified. As for the cat, it now goes by the name of Mehitabel. This dubious name leads me fervently to pray she does not go out of her way to acquire the cockroach companion, though almost certainly Carl Meredith would endorse any effort to this effect.*

The best part of it though was looking across the tinsel and wrapping just now to see Elizabeth and Hector having a very earnest conversation about something or other. Elizabeth has got the cat on her knee, and he's got her hans in his, sort of examining them, I think. They're tucked up by the window being very solemn and earnest. It's only now, seeing them like that, that it has begun to dawn on me how much they are in a position to understand one another. I'm glad. If I can't always grasp the situation, then it's a comfort to know that they've each got someone out there who _does._ Perhaps that is all I can ask.

Here's to a lovely Christmas for you and the family.

Love ever,

Gil

* * *

Martyrs' Manse,  
Kingsport,  
January, 1938

Gil,

I have just seen Nathan and the grandchildren off at the station. We passed a lovely – if noisy – holiday out at Mount Holly. I suppose this is where normal people would complain; Mrs Reynolds was doing so volubly as she departed the station with her husband. Apparently childhood lasts longer every year and she doesn't know what the world is coming to. I don't pretend to know, either, but I recall the injunction to _make a joyful noise unto the Lord._ I take exactly no exception to my descendants – and I really don't know when there got to be so many as to justify that usage – upholding it. It _was_ joyful, too. Chaotic, of course, in the way it always is, but I wouldn't trade it for anything else. There was a bad freeze in the run-up to our Christmas service her at Martyrs' Manse and Nathan and I lost a day to breaking it up so the walkway would be accessible. Jem had gone by then, and Shirley was in the throes – so I have since learned – of persuading Iain and Isobel that they _could_ in fact go on holiday less the Carlisles and the Larkrise people. From the way he tells it, he succeeded by the skin of his teeth. Jake and the boys helped, once they realised - about the shovelling, this is - but that wasn't straight off, because there was a pitched snowball battle happening in the background. I gather there was _very_ elaborate military strategizing going on. Evie was co-opted into helping in the kitchen, Emma volunteered herself, and Joanie made a game effort to follow suit, only to be chased out by the aunts for getting underfoot. She didn't _mean_ to be, but you must know what a girl at age eight - sorry, that's eight and a half, she's very exact about it - can be yourself. Especially because my impression is that Alice Caldicott is more than happy to give them free reign of the kitchen when they're with _her_. Scrap that, I know this, because I have had it explained to me in exquisite detail by Pip that cooking is really chemistry with a different name. He _never_ got that from his mother.

Since your last few letters, I can't but notice that the Japanese ambassador has been agonising over that incident with the Panay boat. Whatever government they're trying to run from Nanjing or where-have-you, they're clearly uneasy about outside interference. So I infer from Naomi's letters, anyway. She does make some mention about returning home, but I don't think I'll believe that until I've seen her safely off the boat.

At any rate, the children were very good about a Christmas without her. They kept talking about the stories they'd have to tell her when she got back, and while none of our escapades involved a dance hosted by the famed Raffles Hotel, I do feel we can safely hold our own. (This at the invitation of the Ambassador, and I forget how Fred is connected to him. The others were invited too, but Li didn't feel up to the event, and going on what John has said and Bruce's observations of our Chinatown, I can't argue.) Pip mentioned something about a fireworks display in his mother's last letter, so naturally Jake manufactured some, and he and Mark set them off over Mount Holly to spectacular effect. No Christmas trees were fired this year, but there was a popcorn string competition, and some most elaborate pinecone creations.

All told, it's been a lovely holiday. I wish Nathan Arnold all the luck in the world readying those children for school. If they're half as fired up as they were before boarding the train, he has his work cut out for him.

Whereas I am off to do the service for young Iris Carmichael's wedding. She's Grace's daughter, if you're wondering. The one who, years ago, was so integral to a murder Jem was working on. I told him it was on, thinking it would be interested, and his jaw about hit the floor. He'll be there with Faith, as will the Inspector and his wife, and no doubt we will all do a good deal of reminiscing.

Give my blessing to all of yours, but an extra one to your Elizabeth. Tell her from me she has to do those exercises routinely so she can do my share of puzzles as well as hers, in time. And may you ever be well, do good work, and keep in touch.

Jo

* * *

* _If you're wondering what Gil is on about here, it's a comic run that started in the papers around 1916. It featured alley-cat Mehitabel and her cockroach sidekick, Archy. Because of course it did. Mind, you can tell it's fictional, because the alley-cat here does something other than snub everyone else on principle. Of course, if you've got a different experience, write in and set me straight - I'd love to hear about it! Love to all of you from Narnia (which is considering thawing, but hasn't. Maybe for Easter?)._


	39. Chapter 39

New Manse,  
Glen St. Mary,  
March, 1938

Jo,

The Supreme Court has overruled provincial legislature and the Accurate News and Information Act is dead. No doubt Kitty will be rejoicing volubly to anyone who will listen. I know your daughter is, because her latest letter to us is largely taken up with expressions of her opinion on the verdict. I suppose you have heard them to. I never understood all our local fuss over the newspaper, much less how we got to a place where local government was wanting to reveal sources as convenient. Something about that unsettles me – possibly it is that I never take home conversations I have had with parishioners.

More globally I'm at a loss as to where to start, except to say I'm beyond glad Miri got herself out of Spain when she did. This in spite of the fact that the German foray into Austria is bound to ruffle feathers. She seems convinced of the venture's merit though, judging from her latest letter. A funny thing – Rosemary looked up from it meditatively and said, 'Is that her talking, do you think, or that boy she married?'

I said I thought it must be Miri's own read on the situation, because she's never been short of an argument before. But Rosemary says I am thinking of Nan, and her ability to argue a black thing white if so inspired, and perhaps I am. What do you make of it?

The Fords, have, as you surmised, returned to Toronto. They went back at the end of February, at the first chance the trains allowed of, and the boys have by-and-large resumed classes up at Crescent, though little Elizabeth is still at home. Writing is, presently, still beyond her, and while the school on Elm St has many virtues, they have yet to compromise on a workable solution. The hope is that Rilla can keep her up-to-date at home and that by September she will be up to resuming class with the others. That's the optimistic outlook, anyway. We'll wait and see how it plays out. With luck, she won't even be a year out, as Anne schooled her pretty well in the months at Ingleside.

Now, am I right thinking your daughter will be home soon?

Love and blessings,

J.M.

* * *

Martyrs' Manse,  
Kingsport,  
March, 1938

John,

Naomi is indeed coming home in the spring. The paper have ordered her back, apparently valuing life over lead for a novelty. The paper has my gratitude. She says in the letter that she has made a valiant effort to persuade your children along with her, and when that failed, Fred tried himself. Neither of them has had any luck. There are any number of reasons for staying, and they run the gamut from not putting Nenni in quarantine to the difficulty of getting papers for Li and Iris, to Una's work at the ACS, which is still good work. Besides, as you are perennially reminding me, they are well-protected by Britain. Still, I will be glad to have my girl back, and I don't doubt her children will feel the same. Already they are making up plans to celebrate her return, and have conscripted Alice to the cause.

You were asking about Germany. I don't know that anyone here wants them in Austria. Certainly Judith Carlisle was the least possessed I've seen her on the subject. I came in to Larkrise as they were dissecting it, or otherwise should never have been any the wiser. I had no idea she and the children had family over there. Neither had the others; I gather they don't often get a mention in conversation – Judith has kept in touch with so few of them over the years. Naturally, at that juncture it made most sense to switch over to the murder of the hour, and they all set off into full Investigateer mode - much less awkward. Even Iain is quite an expert at weighing the options by now. If he _does_ ever decide on ministry, I fancy he'll have some interesting anecdotes to work in to sermons. Not least of them involving a brewery mishap that has got a man boiled in oil. I'll spare you the rest. I don't know _how_ they can go on so over their tea. I never have, and I never will.

May you ever be well, do good work, and keep in touch,

Jo

* * *

Ingleside,  
Glen St Mary,  
April, 1938

Jo,

You were asking about Miss Abby's riding. She gets on well, though I still can't persuade her to go out without me. I've taken to falling behind in an effort to be encouraging, but don't do it often as she freezes up as soon as she notices. Then she brings Meg up short and watches over her shoulder until I've caught her up. Meg doesn't mind, as she uses the interval to fill up on grass shoots, such as are coming through the thaw. Still, it does see her out of the house and further afield than the average Cricket Club venture. That's no small thing. The other day I even got her to race me up to the Young Anrold - Old Bryant? - house. She took Meg at quite the gallop, and never realised she'd missed me, until poor Tam and I came limping in behind.

It all left me feeling quite old. I suddenly felt I understood Captain Jim better than ever; still full of life, and wanting to live as much of it as he could, but regularly worn out by even the little things until it was just him and the First Mate by the fire o' nights. Would you believe it has been over seventeen years now since Jem sent us that telegram from Kingsport? I can still picture it; _Married on Saturday, Stop. Thought you ought to know, Stop._ As for Anne and I -well, that really does seem an age unto itself. But also yesterday.

Yet if proof were lacking that time has passed since those apple blossom days,or even Jem and Faith's swirling, post-war days, we have it in Jims. He's no longer Rilla's war-baby in a soup tureen, or even the young, anxious boy she rehomed when poor Elizabeth Anderson died all those years ago, he's an engineer, certifications and all. He this week departed for the job in America. He swithered about it, on account of Elizabeth's ongoing recovery, but ultimately has departed on schedule. I think her insistence that he keep her in details informed the decision not a little. A friend from Montreal will follow him on shortly – I recall they were quite pleased about landing jobs together. Cornelia cannot think what he will live off of, but she forgets that Jims was brought up proximate to Susan Baker, and is well-versed in cooking. He'll get on fine. So probably will Tom – that's the university classmate. After all, you and I managed in olden days, even without Susan-begat recipes for sustenance. And I have an idea that they did suppers together more nights than not at the boarding house, so presumably Tom isn't completely without culinary wherewithal either. As Alice likes to remind your grandchildren, it really is chemistry in its own right.

Elizabeth, meanwhile, is still trying to get back to puzzle-assembly status. She's been in once or twice to Sick Children, but purely, as I understand it for follow-up assessments. She is, she told me over the phone yesterday, remarkably tired of jellies, and opines that sardines and tunafish should never hereafter attempt marriage with gelatin. I asked if it had inspired her to eat fish. She says not, so I graciously concede this point. I can't really say I blame her. I still get chills recalling those jellied eels Jims is so fond of – and then end up laughing over the absurdity of that particular Junior Reds meeting. Poor Rilla! And she can't even blame Olive this time!

Love ever,

Gil

* * *

New Manse,  
Glen St. Mary,  
April, 1937

Jo,

More word from abroad. This letter came to Bruce after our little bear put the fear of God into her mother by failing to breathe for several minutes at a time. Apparently she got quite red in the face with the effort and made a frightful gasping noise. She got over it, but the local doctor has prescribed country air all the same, and even now the family are making plans to travel down when convenient to Wilhelm's work.. Miri wanted Bruce's opinion as confirmation, and he's for sending Miri and Ursula ahead, only she's rather gone off travelling alone. Gil and Anne are particularly surprised by this turn, as they recall Miri being quite excitable before heading off to Europe. If it comes to that, that's how I remember her between moves, too. The things she'd see, what she'd pack, what she hoped to find on arrival; she was always anticipating them. Mandy never cared for it, even with Miri on hand, but Miri always loved a journey.

Inevitably, Gil rather wondered about the letter coming to Bruce, and Anne had to remind him he'd officially retired. With much effort, at that. 'Yes,' said Gil, 'but not from my grandchildren. That was the whole point!'

All's well though, as Ursula has recovered, and a visit to her grandparents (the ones on hand) upcoming.

Elsewhere, Una has followed up Naomi's letter to you by sending one of her own, re-establishing them in Singapore. The school wanted to know if she'd be staying on through the next year, and of course she's told them yes. Similarly, Carl's tenure at Raffles has been renewed. Even Jerry is staying put in Struan, for the time being, with the result that Mandy and the Challow boy are closer than ever. The little girls – that is Beatice and Harriet – distinctly grudge him this liberty, as they consider Mandy to be theirs. Oh, the injustices of the young – and how keenly felt they can be.

Love and blessings,

J.M.

* * *

Ingleside,  
Glen St. Mary,  
April, 1938

Jo,

When I said I was retired, I really didn't mean that my _grandchildren_ couldn't come to me with inquiries. I meant I didn't want the likes of Sophia Crawford dying on me every other Thursday. Psychosomatic or not, our Little Bear's asthma hardly makes that list. Even if she does grow out of it as she gets older. John says I can hardly fault Miri not making the distinction, not least as our Wandering Merediths have spent less time on our doorstep than anyone else in the connection. Exasperatingly, he's not wrong. I've got a niggling suspicion he's not wrong either about the fact that I don't have to do everything for all of them every time there's a crisis. I _want_ to, obviously, because they are mine, but that's not to say there aren't other capable doctors out there. Miri's local chap, for instance, who got it absolutely right about good, country air. I have every confidence it will do the world of good for Ursula. I only hope we get a proper letter out of it. I feel better knowing all the details thoroughly, when it's my family. Is that your heretical self-reliance?

If so, I should presently be off the hook, having roped Miss Abby into my latest ministrations. Did John tell you? It was like this. Bruce was over at harbour head filling in for Dr. Thomson when word came through Alice at the surgery to ask if I'd give him a second opinion. Not having anything more pressing than a game of cribbage with Hector and Miss Abby on my plate, I made my apologies and went off.

Halfway through setting Niall Drew's leg, there was an almighty clatter and Mrs Drew to say there was Di's girl at the door with the horse and all. The _look_ of her, Jo! She must have come full-pelt from Ingleside, certainly Meg looked overworked enough. As for Miss Abby, well, her hair had worked loose from its plait, which it's always doing, granted, but usually with fewer tangles. And her eyes were wide as dinner-plates. There was colour in her cheeks from the exercise, but in that high, chaotic way that made me think of Ruby when we thought she was wearing rouge and really she was dying. Meg, meanwhile, snorted and snuffled through her nose, the most put-out I have ever seen her.

I hauled my girl off that horse, which was the right call as she about collapsed in my arms. She then set off a mile a minute about the terrible thing that had happened, and you know, I had the most vivid flashbacks to a young Anne. All those girlhood dramas, and her flair for the recapitulation suddenly made sense. I wondered, as I settled Miss Abby on the sofa and Bruce got a glass of water in her hand, how many crises she must have witnessed to make her see everything in such heightened colours.

By this point I had decided that Anne had dropped dead of apoplexy, or something. I swallowed the impulse to demand details, though, since Miss Abby was set on gulping the water, and I couldn't have her making herself sick on top of the rest. Bruce went to see to Meg, I got the water away from Abby, and combed out her hair until she had calmed down. Well, calmed down a little. She couldn't seem to breathe normally, so I kept on stroking her hair out and reminded her how long breaths in worked. We managed five, and I'd been aiming for ten, but remember, I was at this point still thinking Anne was dead. Or that Dulce had gone mad, or something.

At this point I gave her the water back, told her to take little sips, and to tell me what had happened in-between them.

'But you don't _understand!_ ' said Miss Abby, discovering now, of all times, the art of the italic, 'Granny has fallen and she won't get back up! I tried and tried to make her but she won't because I wasn't good and got cross with Hector and now it's all my fault and she's never coming back!'

She said it just like that, all one long, breathless sentence. I could see my efforts at soothing her going to smoke before my eyes; I wanted to race back to Ingleside and see what had happened. But there was a panicked Miss Abby in front of me, so I took a deep breath of my own and focused on that instead. Besides, I still wasn't at all clear on what had happened.

I gave her more of the water to sip, and by degrees the whole thing came out. After I left, she and Hector had abandoned cribbage for Monopoly. Only they fell to arguing over who was going to have the dog token you gifted them. It got quite heated; Hector said he ought to have it, since Dulce was his dog, Abby said he had had it last game and it was her turn. He overturned the board, it knocked over the coal scuttle, Miss Abby screamed in startlement, and Anne, who had been upstairs writing when I left, heard it all and came running downstairs with none of the context. She said to me afterwards that she thought one of them was really hurt. Not unreasonable, since Miss Abby's scream is one of those high treble things that evoke ghouls, goblins and Witches Sabbaths of the most blood-curdling order. Di says there's a way to tell her 'frightened' scream from an ordinary 'vexed' one, but Di, obviously, was at the paper when all of this happened.

Well, Anne rushed down to avert catastrophe, and missed out the bottom three steps in the attempt, landing on her bad ankle. It _would_ be that one. She caught the corner of her head on the rail, too, as by the time Miss Abby got to her there had been a sickening crack (I make that the ankle) and blood on the rail (that was the head wound). The ankle would have been bad enough, but the blow to the head quite did away with any conscious thought Anne might have had.

Hector tried to rush off, but he got as far as the verandah steps, so of course any summoning fell to Abby. She had a sort of idea they couldn't leave Anne alone, and ordered Hector back to Granny while she rang round the houses.

At first Miss Abby tried to ring for me, but naturally the Drews weren't on the exchange, and Bruce was with me. She rang the Old West House surgery anyway, and got Alice, who was mired in some minor emergency involving a scalded infant. She did, however, give Miss Abby the address for the Drew place.

Obviously Hector going was out of the question. Alastair and Di weren't in the house to be sent, so there was nothing for it but for Miss Abby to leave Hector with Anne and come out on Meg. All the while thinking her grandmother was dead or dying and that it was all her fault for venting her frustration like that. I could have laughed in relief. Or wept – possibly both. Instead I got her in to the auto, apologised to Bruce for taking off, and drove off with promises to come back for Meg at the next convenient moment.

By the time we got back, Anne had revived a little and pulled herself up so that she was leaning partially-upright against the bottom stair. As we came in, she was in the process of reassuring Hector she was alive after all. I carried her upstairs, and decided the break in her ankle was bad, but mendable. By then Abby was trembling with relief. She crawled into the bed next to Anne and kept saying, 'I thought you'd gone away and weren't _ever_ coming back. Because Aurelia went away, and Mummy and Hector _almost_ went away, but Susan Baker _did_ go, and she won't ever come back, and she was older than you, so I thought you weren't ever coming back either…'

There weren't horses enough to untangle that logic. Instead I've conscripted her to be my 'District Nurse' in the way Alice is to Bruce. This mostly involves things like sitting beside me while I inspect the bandaging, and carrying cups of tea upstairs, but she's taken to it surprisingly well. Seeing Anne recovering, and even laughing about the episode is helping more than anything.

That's all the news from us here. Write and catch me up on Kingsport. I can read your account while sewing my hair back in place.

Love ever,

Gil

* * *

Martyrs' Manse,  
Kingsport,  
April, 1938

Gil,

Find enclosed a copy of a book the children have passed along to me. I can't make top, tail or middle of it, but on the other hand, Miss Abby and Hector might, on account of being so well-versed in Hobbits and the like. Miss Abby might like to read it to Anne, as they are both bound to have opinions on Dr. Ransom. It starts off in quite the usual way, a country walk with a very English feel to it, and a cottage, but that's before the seal-like things put in an appearance. Do ask Miss Abby how she approaches the pronunciation. Mara's sister advises me to say all the letters, but even so, I still trip over _Hrossa_. Nevertheless, Anne may find it diversionary until such a time as she is back on her feet again.

We are all thinking of her here, Jem and Faith particularly, who were doing all sorts of diagnosing over the dinner table, with input from the children when I last dropped in to make inquiries of them. The Boiling in Oil Perpetrator has been brought to heal, so of course conversation was otherwise at a standstill. (It was the brother, if you're wondering.) Anyway, Christopher was saying that his grandmother's ankle had been bad ever since the ridgepole episode, which suggests he's heard you say it. Also that this latest resolution to become an Arctic Explorer won't stick. (Blame Biggles for that one, by the way. I think he's off exploring the Gobi or something at the moment and Christopher wanted to emulate him without being exactly the same.)

Joanie and her brothers are due to visit again soon for the half-term, and I'm looking forward to it already. Of course, I don't dare top the Christmas Chocolate escapade, but _am_ trying to come up with adventures for them to have. Thoughts? I recall Anne particularly is good at that sort of thing, as was Phil. Perhaps she could jot down notes for me between chapters of _Out of the Silent Planet._

Wish her well from myself and all here, and tell Miss Abby good work on a job well done. I know you've said it already, but this comes from me. I'd have hated to hear anything had gone really wrong.

Be well, do good work, and keep in touch,

Jo

* * *

Ingleside,  
Glen St Mary,  
May, 1938

Jo,

You have started a terrible thing, as now not only Miss Abby and Hector want to acquire _Hrossa_ (I _think_ this is the plural?) but so do Joanie and Pip. It was the line, _glossy and coat, liquid eye, sweet breath_ , and the revelation they were vaguely cat-like that did it. Di asked quite sensibly what Dulce and Flossie were supposed to make of a bipedal walrus (or are they otters, do you think? Anne leans towards otters), but Hector said resolutely that they would wash its eyes. He's probably right, too.

Needless to say, Lewis certainly gave us something to talk about – or you did! Anne was delighted; she said it made her think of those dialogues she used to write. They were more whimsy than they were eclectic, but I think the generous spirit was the same. She's moved on to a book by someone called Greene, and its only drawback is that it's not really suited for Miss Abby. Of course, I have every confidence she will get in to it anyway, but you know me, I'd save her from even literary darkness as long as possible. And it really is grim, this latest read. Good, though. Though, not, perhaps, reflective of real Brighton. One does hope not, anyway.

The other evening Miss Abby came down from one of her evening sessions with Anne and said to me, 'I don't think everyone goes away forever after all. Like Aurelia and Susan Baker. I mean, sometimes they have to because God says so, but I think sometimes He lets you bring them back. That's what you do, isn't it, Grandad? You make sure they get to come back to people.'

I said that sounded about right, and asked if she wanted cocoa. She said yes, thought a bit, tacked on a please, and then scrambled up on a chair to inspect the mixing process. Of course, I said as I mixed the cocoa, that was what she was doing too, with Granny. She blinked a bit, elbowed me out of the way, took over the stirring and said she supposed that sounded right too. Then, with a final, definitive stir, added that she liked it. 'It feels good,' she said. 'Knowing no one is going away after all.'

What could I possibly do but agree with that?

Love ever,

Gil

* * *

Martyrs' Manse,  
Kingsport,  
May, 1938

John,

They're _home_. I met them off the boat early this morning with the children. No doubt the school has opinions on Nathan extracting the children to make the greeting party, but that's as may be. If anyone deserved to be in the receiving line it was those children. They stood with me leaping about like one of those flying fish from Evie's biology book, and that lasted only until they saw their parents alight. Then they ran barrelling towards them, even unsteady little Gordon, who grabbed Naomi by the ankles while the others shrieked the triumphal news of their return to all and sundry. Mrs. Reynolds would have been scandalised. I happen to think the sentiment was exactly right.

Oh, it is _good_ to have them back, even if they are catching the next train out to the Glen. I got them all into a taxi, even the squealing, writhing little ones, and took them back to Martyrs for tea. Gordon, naturally has been ensconced on his mother's lap ever since, and Joanie has been affixed limpet-like to Fred's arm ever since he stepped on to the docks. This hampered the consumption of tea not at all. It largely sat and cooled anyway, as we all talked around and over each other about goings-on. Joanie took a book prize for spelling at Christmas, and she's been terribly keen to show it off to her mother ever since. Pip had won a ribbon at the egg-and-spoon race and had brought it with him to present them with. I forget if that was your Knox's Fete, or the Methodist affair Nathan hosts every June, and didn't catch which it was in the retelling. There were questions to answer about little Elizabeth Ford, and descriptions of Raffles Hotel and the Ambassador, also of the places Naomi visited and the things she reported. The school won't like _that_ either, I venture. They always seem to take such exception to having well-informed infants' class students. Perhaps it's as well Joanie is moving up a set from September. But no matter. The children were greedy for details, and, as ever when I hear the stories from abroad, it all sounds vivid and intoxicating in a way that leaves me feeling we shan't ever equal it here.

But then, I don't think we have to. Naomi put fresh water in the teapot and it was quite enough to be together again. She hadn't seen the alterations I had made to the sitting room, and once we had got done with news, she took several minutes assessing the changes and querying the destinations of assorted furnishings I have since let go.

'It suits you,' she said eventually, which seemed like a stamp of approval. That was a relief – I do hate to think the children might think all this is my way of letting Phil go. But really there were some pieces it wound up hurting too much to look at. All that dense, heavy furniture we had to weather together on first arrival, especially. It kept reminding me I should never have achieved so much without her.

Someone – not me – brought up the Chocolate Adventure of the summer to general parental outcries of _They did what?! – You let them?_I said it had been all in a good cause, which convinced no one, though Joanie was a very good seconder on that front. In the end I had to deflect by saying how glad I was they were back and hoping they weren't going away again for a while.

'Not for a long time,' said Naomi. 'We've earned a night or ten in our own bed, I should think.' After everything that's happened, gunboat disasters, the transformation of Nanjing, Spain, the Annexing of Vienna and all the rest, I was glad to hear it. Selfish, no doubt, but no less true for that. There were inquiries after Miri and the baby, and about Anne's recovery, where the Wandering Merediths were stationed now. Somewhere along the way they offered it as their opinion that Una, Carl and family would be perfectly safe where they were.

'We just missed home,' Fred said easily.

Not nearly so much as I missed them. By the time you get this, no doubt they'll have reclaimed their little grey house on the edge of Four Winds and plans will be afoot to catch Naomi back up on the _running_ of the paper as opposed to only writing long-distance for it. Give them my love again when you see them. And may you ever be well, do good work, and keep in touch.

Jo

* * *

 _If you're wondering what C. S. Lewis has done to garner a mention here, the first of his Space Trilogy books was indeed published in 1938. Gil and John here discuss_ _The Slience of the Outer Planet_ , _which I make the least weird of the bunch. Still worth a read to the interested, though, if only to see Lewis trying his hand at something a bit less typical of his later work. They then segue, as you've no doubt picked up, in to allusions to Graham Greene's Brighton Rock, also 1938. It was quite the year for literary variety._

 _J_ _ust the one more chapter after this, and we'll call it a day. At least until the next story rears its head. In the meantime, thanks to all of you reading along, and/or reviewing. Extra thanks to whoever interceded with Aslan at the Eastern Door. It is now rainy, but spring is definitely coming to Narnia._


	40. Chapter 40

New Manse,  
Glen St. Mary,  
June, 1938

They are not coming home. I had thought, perhaps, they might, in the face of the growing crisis. But paperwork has made it nigh impossible for Carl to secure passage for Li and Iris, and of course he will not go without them, nor would I have him do so. He has pressed Una to return, I know, but all she writes on the subject is, _If the work I have done here has been needful in these days of sunshine, how much more so will it be in the face of looming darkness_?*

I find, much as I want to, I cannot argue with her. Were it only the work, I might redirect her efforts to our imperfect Mission here in the Glen, or perhaps encourage her back towards Patterson St. But she has community there as I have never known her to have; they talk music over tea on Middle Alley, and they sit up evenings quilting; they work alongside one another hauling our parcels in from the docks. She has delivered their children, and taught those same children everything from music to History and Geography. They have shared meals and organised church functions, watched the mynas and orioles dart across the sky as arrows. They have weathered floods together, and venomous snakes; laughed over that absurd buffalo of Carl's. I would not take that, her community and her purpose away from her in one fell swoop. It would be a selfish person indeed who could, and while I am anxious, and I am mortal, I hope I am not yet that.

Besides, both she and Carl advise that Singapore is as mighty a fortress as anyone could wish, a sizeable port and with a strong fleet and excellent air force. I cannot do less than take these things on trust, and pray for them as ever, secure in the knowledge that wherever they are, I carry them ever with me in my heart.

Love and blessings,

J.M.

* * *

Ingleside,  
Glen St. Mary,  
June 1938

Jo,

They are coming down for the summer. I do not know how we have wrangled it, but shortly we are to have them all around us once again; Nan and Jerry, Jem and Faith, Mara and Shirley, Rilla and Ken, and all their children. Even now Anne and Di are readying the House of Dreams for the Fords – both sets. That is, Di is doing the brunt of it, while Anne sits out in its garden sewing up a new set of curtains and resting her ankle. The grandchildren are to be set up in the Ingleside attic. Bruce, as ever, is up at the Old West House, and we will want only Una, Carl, his family and little Miri and her girl to make up numbers.

It is not quite the same, somehow, without Susan to fill the house with culinary creations, though even now Di is trying to keep the standard up, and the girls who pin hopes will more than rise to the occasion on arrival. Poppy is promising a visit, and as Mara reminded me over the phone the other day, no one ever held a candle to their Mouse for bread. But Di was, as you'll recall, the only disciple of Susan to ever master her cream puffs, and even now the pastry she is making ready for them is infiltrating the house all sweet and floury in its early stages.

Anne and Rosemary, too, are working overtime to hold up our end, readying crumbles with their stewed fruit tang, creamy cakes and sticky-and-spiced butter tarts, with their mingling maple syrup and cinnamon. It is not quite the same. I do not like to say. They are, in fact, altogether too amicable. No one is grousing about the unreliability of the Charlottetown train, or being unable to speculate on what God in His Heaven was thinking, flinging all those dear children to the far reaches of the earth (this was code for Toronto, and only occasionally Scotland), or the unfairness of only getting to see the children at holidays when everyone knows God intended families to stick close, the Bible said so somewhere, and while Susan did not know the verse, almost certainly good Rev. Meredith did, and that she would tie to.

Presently Anne will take the silver into the parlour, throw the windows open, and sitting on the window seat, polish the cutlery placidly. Di will join her, and probably so will Dulce. No one will grumble about dogs that go where they please; in fact not so much as an eyebrow will rise as she climbs onto my knee and butts her nose under my newspaper, demanding attention. They will deme it positively mundane when Flossie climbs on top of Dulce's head and shoves her nose in my face on pain of being left out. And when, inevitably, I capitulate, Di will eke out a scrap of roast she has been saving for the dogs' third dinner, and deny all accusations that she loves them, really. Rosemary will take charge of the rosebud tea set and they will all laugh over remember-whens and rib each other about assorted culinary shortfalls. Alastair will find us out for tea, as will Miss Abbey with Hector. They will swipe monkey-faces and paint the varnished coffee table in fingerprints; Alastair and I will nod along at this chorus of amity. One of us will get out the chess set, and I will toss a coin to determine who begins play. It will be charming and golden as a sunbeam, but it is a different era.

I cannot complain. _Time like an ever rolling stream,_ and all that. Soon they will be all around us, our children and their children, jocund and merry as a whirligig at any passing fair. That is more than enough to satisfy me.

Tell me, Jo, what does your holiday look like? Any chance we can lure you and yours down for the holiday? We should be beyond glad to have you if so. It has been too long since you, John and I sat by the fire and wrestled the merits of favourite translations of this-and-that, and boasted of family. If you are able to get away, we should be glad to have you – all of you. I haven't quite worked out the logistics of where we would put you, but be assured, we will find somewhere. Naomi would hardly object, I think, if I were to volunteer the spare room at the Old Bryant House on the Four Winds road. Nor will Bruce, if I cram some of your miscreants in with him. And if that still doesn't do, well, there is ever a place for you and yours here.

Love ever,

Gil

P.S. Find enclosed your copy of _Silence of the Outer Planet_. For all that talk of _Hrossa_ , Anne assures me she knows what it is to miss a pet book and would not wish that on you.

* * *

20 Princes Street,  
Kingsport,  
June, 1938

Dear Uncle Gil,

It is with regret that I write to inform you of the death of my father, Rev. Jonas Blake. I know you were good friends for many years, and that he valued that friendship highly. Observing it over the years, Jake and I have often thought if we should ever be half as close to our own people as you have been, then we will have done well.

You will notice I am returning you the copy of _Silence of the Outer Planet_. Forgive the liberty; I have noticed going through your correspondence how much joy it occasioned at Ingleside. Knowing Dad, he'd have wanted you to keep it for that alone. Read it, reread it, and think of him. Here's to the younger Inglesideans someday adventuring across a _Hrossa_. He'd be delighted to know they'd at least tried. If they do, he'd want them to name it for Mother, but only because he was always so perplexed that he should make an impression. I doubt he ever let on quite how many Jonas he christened over the years, but they were legion. Still are, I'm sure. Anyway, if the Cricket Club (I believe that is the name?) _should_ find that first _Hrossa_ and dedicate it to Mother, perhaps they'll reserve the second one for him. She'd never be really happy without him – but you knew her. You know that.

I'm afraid I haven't done well, over the years, keeping in touch, beyond the occasional birthday card or holiday greeting. I'm afraid, too, I make a poor attempt at a theologian. Nevertheless, if you're willing, it would be an honour to continue the correspondence on Dad's behalf. Were he here, I suppose he'd tell us both that _to everything a_ season, and that he had had his. He'd leave out the bit about it being as gracious a season of love and service as anyone could hope for. But I _know_ he would encourage us both to ever be well, do good work, and keep in touch.

Sam Blake

* * *

 _*With apologies to Jane Haining, whose line this historically was. I've nicked it for use here on the basis that she and Una are patently kindred spirits._

 _And that's the lot. Thanks go to all my Anne-grils, wherever you are and however you've come along for the ride; whether you reviewed by the chapter, dropped in when you could, messaged me, or maybe just lurked in the wings. Either way, it wouldn't have been much of a story without you on the ohter end of it. An extra-mention goes to Elizasky, whose brainchild this was, and without whom, I guarantee we would not be here now. And to anyone else who threw narrative spaghetti at the wall for me, or acted as the testing wall while I did the throwing, or just correcting my history. Love and gratitude to you all. We're off to Singapore next, but as I'm still writing that, keep your eyes peeled for some shorter pieces in the interim._


End file.
